


wouldn't it be beautiful (why can't i?)

by johnnlaurenss



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Romantic Comedy, Trans Characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-08
Updated: 2018-02-08
Packaged: 2019-03-15 06:24:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13607472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/johnnlaurenss/pseuds/johnnlaurenss
Summary: Okay, so this is a dream, he thinks, where he’s thirty years old and in a stranger’s apartment and—what’s the point? He’s dreaming butwhy this, why now?He collapses into a chair and rubs his forehead. It’s something he’d seen his foster mom do before, but never really understood. He thinks he finally gets what she meant when she told him that life was giving her a migraine.He's about eighty percent certain he fell asleep as a thirteen year old, after all.***In which wishing dust does more than just sparkle, Enjolras grows up really fast, and some realizations come.(aka, thethirteen going on thirtyau no one asked for)





	wouldn't it be beautiful (why can't i?)

**Author's Note:**

> this is messy and got out of hand, but - well, who's surprised?
> 
> based on the moving _thirteen going on thirty_ and title from the song "why can't i" from the movie soundtrack. enjoy!

_nineteen ninety six_

 

 

 

Say what you must about adolescence, but there is nothing anyone could ever say to convince Enjolras that the years spent as a teenager are anything less than absolute _hell_.

 

His school picture is a horrendous thing, his haircut some awful style his foster mother cut for him, a gross-looking pimple on his forehead, a retainer displayed grotesquely by the grimace of his mouth, and a shirt of his foster father’s from his younger years, given to Enjolras as some kind of _coming-of-age_ gift, or something.

 

His foster parents, for what it’s worth, put up a fairly good effort to make his life normal.

 

But, well—nothing is normal for him. He’s a _teenager_.

 

He’s glaring at his picture with distaste when he picks it up, and he’s so distracted by glaring at his bowl cut that he runs straight into everyone in his path. Not that he notices, or even cares, until one person pushes back at him enough to get him to glance up, realizing he’s run directly into his best friend. “Watch where you’re going, mate, or you’re gonna run over the only friend you have in this place!” laughs Courfeyrac, and Enjolras can’t help but smile back in return. “Ooh, are those your pictures?”

 

Enjolras makes a halfhearted protest as Courfeyrac rips the pictures out of his hands, and begins giggling hysterically. “My dear friend, we’ve got to do something about your god-awful haircut sooner rather than later. My mom can probably fix it for you. And why are you _scowling_?”

 

Enjolras frowns again. “He called me the wrong name,” mutters Enjolras. “And he called me _sweetheart_.”

 

Courfeyrac makes a sympathetic noise. “Asshole,” he says loudly. Enjolras hushes him quickly but a slew of giggles makes its way through the hall because of the curse word regardless.

 

“They’re going to expel you for swearing,” Enjolras tells him, reaching for his picture and huffing when Courfeyrac moves it away from him again..

 

“Nah, they’re gonna expel me because I’m Latino,” deadpans Courfeyrac. He grins maniacally. “To hell with it! When I leave, you’ll start the revolution, right? Vive la Courf!”

 

Courfeyrac is shouting again, despite Enjolras’s best efforts to silence him. They’re laughing again, holding onto each other, only stopping when a flash from across the hall catches their attention. Enjolras blinks, still grinning, as the person welding the camera lowers it and grins sheepishly at the both of them.

 

“Figured I’d document the start of history,” says Grantaire. Courfeyrac laughs and ropes both of them in under his arm, an impressive feat since Grantaire’s a whole head taller than the both of them.

 

“From now on, I demand all photographs be taken on my good side,” cries Courfeyrac dramatically. “Please, ask before taking pictures of the art. Anyway, I gotta bounce, I’ve got this test tomorrow and Gillenormand won’t get off my back about studying for it.” He rolls his eyes. “But hey, I’ll see you at yours sometime after five, yeah?”

 

Enjolras nods as Courfeyrac peels himself away from him and Grantaire. He blows them both a kiss, calls, “Later!” and rushes down the hall. Enjolras shakes his head fondly.

 

“He’s something else, isn’t he?” remarks Grantaire, grinning toothily at Enjolras.

 

“That he is,” Enjolras agrees. “Hey, you’re coming over tonight too, right? It wouldn’t be a proper party without you.”

 

Grantaire scuffs his shoe on the linoleum floor and scratches at the back of his head. “Course I’ll be there, yeah,” he says. “I got a present for you and all. Hey, your foster parents are cool with you having people over?”

 

Enjolras shrugs. “They don’t really mind,” he admits. “Though these days it’s hard to get a grip on what they will or won’t care for. They’re usually really good, better than—well, you’ve heard some of the stories. I think I sort of baffle them, so sometimes there’s things they’ll let me do without even thinking about it.”

 

Grantaire nods and makes a noncommittal noise at the back of his throat, and Enjolras gets distracted thinking about what’s causing the corners of Grantaire’s mouth to twist unexpectedly, and why he looks so odd though he’s trying to keep a smile on his face. Eventually he starts to wonder why exactly he can’t stop _thinking_ about why Grantaire being upset bothers him so much, and it spirals from there, a bit.

 

Enjolras is so caught up in his thoughts that he forgets to reply, so Grantaire goes, “You sort of baffle everyone, man, don’t take it too hard.”

 

And Enjolras beams at him.

 

“Wanna walk home together?” Enjolras asks, and Grantaire offers him his arm with grand movements. Enjolras laughs giddily but accepts it nonetheless. “You know, R, this is why people say you’re baffling, too.”

 

Grantaire feigns surprise. “Me, baffling?” he gasps. “It’s almost like I’m, I dunno, _odd_ or something.”

 

“That’s why we all get along,” Enjolras says seriously, and it’s the truth.

 

Their walk home is quiet, which is normal for them. It’s one of the few routine things in his life, his walks with Grantaire, and the ease that comes with it. It was so easy for him and Grantaire to fall into friendship as quickly as they did; Enjolras has only lived at this house for a year or so, but the way he gets on with Grantaire and Courfeyrac makes it feel like he’s known them for ages.

 

The nice thing about Grantaire is that they don’t always have to talk. Their walks home consist of steps taken in sync and giggling when they realize they’ve been following the same pattern, Grantaire kicking rocks and Enjolras stepping on every crunchy leaf he sees, and randomly, full length debates that dissolve into laughter after a while. Enjolras _loves_ it.

 

Today, their topic of debate is the necessity of birthday parties.

 

“You can’t _hate_ birthday parties!”

 

“I don’t _hate_ them, I just think they’re redundant once you reach a certain age. Birthday parties when you're a kid means stuffing your face with cake and opening presents to get new toys and confetti and balloons and colors. Birthday parties when you’re grown up are expensive meals and pointless conversation and the presents are always just socks ‘cause no one knows you well enough anymore.”

 

Grantaire blinks in shock. “I can’t believe you of all people are cynical about _birthday parties_ ,” he mutters, flabbergasted. His hand brushes against Enjolras’s as they walk. “It’s a party, to celebrate you!”

 

Enjolras rolls his eyes. “I don’t want the attention, R,” he argues. “Hell, haven’t wanted it since I was a kid. Gotta remember, my birthday’s never been a celebration. This is probably the first time since I was five that I’ve even had a proper party. Bouncing from house to house doesn’t exactly leave a lot of room for birthdays.”

 

“Yeah, well, after today’s party, I’m going to set your mind right,” says Grantaire resolutely. He grins lazily at Enjolras, in that charming way that always makes his heart skip a beat. “I’ll be over just after five, around the same time Courf shows, good?”

 

Enjolras nudges Grantaire’s shoulder again. “Don’t be late.”

 

“When am I ever?” Grantaire snorts, pushing back lightly. Enjolras smiles toothily at him. “I won’t be, cross my heart. Don’t start eating the cake without me, okay?”

 

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Enjolras says. “Hey, do you have any Razzles?”

 

Grantaire makes a face. “Razzles are for children,” he tells Enjolras, raising an eyebrow and looking far too serious. Enjolras just sticks out his hand in response, causing Grantaire to laugh, but he reaches into his backpack regardless and pulls out an unopened package of Razzles. Enjolras lets out a victorious sound. Grantaire, for what it’s worth, just shakes his head fondly and opens the package to pour some into Enjolras’s hand. “You’re lucky I care about you enough to feed your Razzles addiction.”

 

Enjolras just laughs in response, already skipping up the steps to his front door and popping the candies into his mouth . He hesitates just a minute when he reaches his door, to watch as Grantaire bounds up the steps to his own house and fumbles with his keys as he tries to get them into that fussy old lock. Enjolras is unable to look away, watching enraptured, as Grantaire finally succeeds and a happy little grin spreads across his face as he sways back and forth in a mini celebration. Grantaire seems to feel someone’s gaze on him, because he looks up right before he enters his house and catches Enjolras staring. His cheeks darken significantly, but he grins and waves. Enjolras waves back, embarrassed at being caught, but he’s smiling softly to himself as he slips inside his own house and closes the door gently behind him.

 

His foster parents are in the kitchen, and they burst into song the second he turns around.

 

“Happy Birthday!” they cheer when they’re done, and Enjolras startles so hard his backpack nearly slips off his shoulders. But he’s smiling back at them when they come towards him and wrap him up in their arms. His foster mom presses a kiss to the top of his head. “Oh, I can’t believe you’re already thirteen! I can’t believe it’s been a year…”

 

“ _Mom_ ,” Enjolras complains, swatting at her arm. “Stop, it’s not even that big of a birthday.”

 

“Nonsense,” his father says. “It is a big birthday! You’re in your teenage years now, things are going to start changing, it’s a very exciting time—”

 

“Oh my god, please stop, can we not do this right now!”

 

They laugh at him, like it’s amusing that he’s totally mortified that they’re the most embarrassing parents at the world. Regardless, they ignore his antics and drag him into the kitchen, where there’s a single cupcake sitting on the counter with an unlit candle. His mother says, very seriously, “We know you’re going to celebrate with your friends, but let us have this? Make a wish, darling.”

 

And so they light the candle, and Enjolras doesn’t even get embarrassed when they sing to him again, and when he makes his wish he holds it close to his heart and prays to god it comes to pass one day. His foster father kisses his forehead and his foster mother squeezes his hand, and he thinks not for the first time that he’s really lucky to have the family he has now.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Grantaire shows up at five o’clock on the dot, even though Courfeyrac hasn’t arrived yet. Enjolras is down in the basement, switching cassettes over cassettes out of the stereo and trying to settle on the perfect song. He doesn’t hear Grantaire come down the stairs, so he jumps a little bit when he appears in Enjolras’s line of sight with a crooked grin on his face. “Having trouble picking some tunes?”

 

Enjolras makes a face. “I can’t decide what’s best. I mean, it’s just supposed to be you, me, and Courf, but you know Courf, he invites other people sometimes, and am I supposed to expect them? Should I have dance music on in case they come? Do we _want_ to listen to that? What about—”

 

Grantaire holds up his hands, gesturing for Enjolras to stop, and Enjolras clamps his mouth closed. “First off, Enj, take a deep breath. You’re way overthinking this.”

 

Enjolras does.

 

“Second, why don’t you come take a look at this fly present I got you, then we can think about music.”

 

“Oh!” Enjolras immediately perks up, straightening from where he’d been crouched in front of the stereo and looking eagerly at Grantaire who has set a large box with a horrendous looking bow on top of his table. Grantaire gestures for him to come over.

 

“So, this is only the first part of your present, because the second part is going to come later, but. Ah, god, I’m nervous about this, that’s—sorry. Um, okay. So. Remember how you told me once, that when you were a younger kid you always wanted a dollhouse like some of your foster sisters would have?”

 

“Yes?”

 

Grantaire lifts the top of the box off.

 

“Ta-da,” he says quietly, and Enjolras sucks in a sharp breath.

 

It’s a dollhouse, but it’s unlike anything Enjolras has ever seen. It’s not the commercialized ones, it’s handmade and designed specifically to model after his house, his _foster_ house, the first place to ever feel like home. Breathless, his hand lifts slowly and his fingers trace the outer edge of the dollhouse.

 

“It’s an Enjolras Dream House,” Grantaire’s saying, quietly, embarrassed. “I made it.”

 

“You _made_ this?”

 

He can tell that Grantaire is skeptical about it, maybe a bit worried for Enjolras’s reaction, but he’s so awestruck that he can’t form any other coherent thoughts. Grantaire stumbles forward and starts talking, a thousand words a minute, but Enjolras hangs onto every word that tumbles from his lips like it’s liquid gold.

 

“Yeah, see, there’s you in the attic, reading your favorite articles from Perspective, and, uh. There’s the world’s biggest stereo, right next to your parents’ old record player because I know you love that thing, with every record in the world, the cool ones of course. And uh, there’s Bryan Adams sitting on your couch, just hanging out ‘cause your family’s the coolest. And I’m there, keeping an eye on him, because you’ve got a crush on him and he probably knows it—”

 

“I do _not_ ,” Enjolras protests, laughing, but he still can’t catch his breath so his argument doesn’t do much good.

 

“Yes, you do,” teases Grantaire. Enjolras can’t stop smiling at him. “Oh, I nearly forgot! Wishing dust, the most important thing.” He pulls a packet out of his pocket, showing it proudly. “See, uh, it says here, ‘The wishing dust knows what’s in your heart of hearts. It will make all your dreams come true.’ It’s better than wishing on candles on a cake.”

 

Enjolras’s smile goes soft at the edges. “Thank you, R,” he whispers, feeling grateful and happy and a little bit breathless still. Grantaire just smiles back at him, then carefully tears open the packet to sprinkle the dust over top of the dollhouse. As it falls gently, in all it’s glittery and shimmering glory, Enjolras closes his eyes, and makes his second, even more important wish of the day.

 

It’s cut short in the middle by his doorbell ringing.

 

“That must be Courf!” he says, turning rapidly towards the door. He doesn’t catch the way Grantaire’s face falls slightly, just so. “Hey, will you choose a cassette while I go let him in? R, this is amazing, _thank you_ , um. I’ll be right back, I’m gonna go grab Courf!”

 

He can’t explain the way he can’t stop his heart from beating rapidly in his chest.

 

Enjolras bounds up the stairs as quickly as he can, rushing towards the door and throwing it open with a huge grin on his face. It falters when he sees Courfeyrac standing there, hands in his pockets and eyes red, his parents still sitting in the car in Enjolras’s driveway. “What’s wrong?” Enjolras whispers.

 

 

 

 

 

 

By the time he watches Courfeyrac get back in his car, by the time he watches as his parents drive him away, by the time he’s finally able to move from standing frozen in his doorway, it seems like a lifetime has passed. He realizes faintly he can hear music playing from downstairs, the faint beats of _Groove Is In The Heart_ reaching the upstairs. When he turns, he notices Grantaire standing at the base of the staircase, the door to the basement open and his face worried.

 

“You didn’t come down,” Grantaire says, like it explains everything. “I was worried. Where’s Courf?”

 

Enjolras swallows thickly. He feels cold, and small, and very, very alone.

 

He folds his arms out of habit, unsure what else he can do, and grips the sleeves of his sweater tightly. He can’t look Grantaire in the eye, can’t really do anything right now except wonder how life can turn out like this, how one second he can feel like he’s on top of the world only to have reality come bearing down on him the minute he turns his back.

 

“Enjolras?”

 

“Courf’s parents found out he’s gay,” Enjolras whispers. Grantaire flinches, but Enjolras can’t take his eyes off the floor. “They, uh. They don’t know how to take it, so. He’s. He’s not going to come, he can’t stay, because they need to talk, he needs to. They.”

 

He’s hyperventilating, and maybe on the verge of tears, because in an instant Grantaire crosses the threshold and crushes Enjolras to his chest, holding him and soothing him as he begins to shake. “Oh, god, it’s just,” he gasps, “they said they love him and they’ll try to understand but they don’t _get_ it and I don’t—how can people not understand, why is it such a big deal? You read articles, magazines like Perspective, and everything seems so accepting and you like to think that’s really what it’s like but then something like _this_ happens and you wonder what people will think about you when they find out you—”

 

He stops abruptly, panicked and trembling, but Grantaire just holds him tighter and runs his hand up and down his arm, soothing. “It’s okay,” he whispers. “Me too. Enj, it’s okay, me too.”

 

“I just want to live in a time where it’s not so terrifying,” Enjolras cries. His fingers tighten around Grantaire’s shirt. “Why is it like this? Why are people like this? Why?”

 

“Shh,” Grantaire soothes. “It’s okay. I know, I’m sorry.”

 

They stay like that for minutes, maybe hours, maybe days. Enjolras is overwhelmingly comforted by Grantaire’s embrace, something paradoxical and confusing but undeniably nice, and he can’t exactly bring himself to pull away. He’s not quite crying, just gasping for air as Grantaire coaxes him through this anxiety, and eventually he’s able to breathe without feeling like he’s going to absolutely die.

 

He pulls away enough that he can look at Grantaire’s face, and the redness of the other boy’s eyes, and his face crumples again. “I’m sorry,” he rushes to say, but Grantaire shakes his head.

 

“I’m okay,” he promises. “It just hurts me to see you so sad.”

 

There’s a moment, then, when Enjolras is certain that Grantaire’s gaze darts to his lips. His breath is caught in his throat—he’s frozen to the bone. Grantaire’s still holding him, though his hand has stopped from where he was reassuringly rubbing Enjolras’s shoulders. For a second, Grantaire hesitates, then very deliberately, he starts to lean down.

 

Enjolras wants to let it happen, he _wants_ to, but his heart swells with panic and he can’t get the image of Courfeyrac’s red, red eyes out of his mind, so he pushes out of Grantaire’s embrace and stumbles back, horrified at the way he’s behaving. Grantaire looks hurt, and confused, and it stings Enjolras more, but he can’t stop the wave of panic that overtakes him. “I’m—” he starts, then stops, because he doesn’t know what he is, he doesn’t know _what_ he’s doing, he’s—

 

Grantaire’s looking at him like Enjolras just took the answer to the universe away from him and it _hurts_ but he _can’t_ so he stammers out, “I’m sorry, I just—I can’t—”

 

And Grantaire is opening his mouth to speak but Enjolras _can’t_ hear what he has to say right now, he’s not sure he’ll be able to handle it, so he turns rapidly and darts towards the basement and slams the door shut behind him. He stands on the top step gasping for breath, unable to _move_ , and then Grantaire’s on the other door _knocking_ even though the door _doesn’t lock_ and Enjolras can’t breathe as he stumbles down the stairs. He’s aware he’s having a panic attack, one of his worst ones in years, probably, so he sits down in front of the dollhouse Grantaire made him with his own hands and tries to blink back the tears that fill his eyes. Grantaire’s calling his name still, at the top of the stairs, but he doesn’t try to open the door.

 

Enjolras wants to let him down, but he’s scared of what might happen if he does.

 

“I hate this,” he tells the dollhouse. “I hate this! I—I want to live in a time where this doesn’t _matter_. I want it to be _easy_. In a time where Perspective Magazine isn’t an alternate reality, where life is just that accepting, where—”

 

The tears start to fall from his eyes. Enjolras leans forward, resting his head on the ledge of the table and squeezing his eyes closed. “I want it to be easy,” he whispers. He lifts his head just enough to let it drop against the table, out of frustration, out of sadness. “I want it to be accepting. I want to be happy.”

 

Some of the wishing dust slides off the roof, off the dollhouse, off the table, and settles neatly against Enjolras’s curls.

 

Enjolras repeats, “I want it to be easy. Accepting. Happy. I want… I want…”

 

His eyes flutter, until they close indefinitely, and he falls gently into sleep.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_two thousand thirteen_

 

 

 

When he wakes up, he’s in bed.

 

He’s disoriented—and, honestly, he’s never been the best at being coherent in the mornings—and he’s probably still half asleep, but he’s at least halfway certain that this bed isn’t _his_ bed which makes everything all the stranger. The sheets are too soft to be the old flannel sheets his foster parents had first provided him when he’d moved in, and there’s more blankets than he usually keeps. And, it’s pitch-black. The blinds are drawn but the light streaming through them is on the wrong side of his room—

 

His eyes blink open.

 

He’s not in a room he recognizes, either.

 

He’s so _confused_. Enjolras squeezes his eyes shut and tries to rub the sleep away, but even when he reopens them and waits for them to focus, the room hasn’t changed. He stumbles out of bed, wincing at the cold floor and gaping at it, and nearly tripping over the tattered shoes at the foot of his bed. There’s a door slightly ajar in front of him, so he stumbles out of it as he tries to run his fingers through his hair. They get caught right away in curls, which is odd because Enjolras is fairly certain he fell asleep with not-curly hair.

 

“Wha—” he murmurs, stumbling out the door. He hesitates when he realizes he’s not only in a room he doesn’t recognize, but a house that isn’t _his_. His heart pounds against his ribs. “Mom?”

 

The hallway is empty. He thinks it’s an apartment, small but decent, and it’s decorated in a style he’s never seen before but finds himself impressed by. It’s tidy, except for two coats draped across a couch, and a blanket messily dropped over it. It’s familiar in all its uncertainty, like he’s been here before but can’t quite recall the time. He steps further into the apartment, taking inventory of the strange furniture and the unfamiliar devices and the—

 

He freezes as he walks past a mirror.

 

Staring back at him is a man, thirty years old.

 

Enjolras screams in shock and stumbles back, tripping over a chair and collapsing against the cushions. “What the hell?” he cries, but his voice sounds unfamiliar and deep. He shifts enough that he can glance at the mirror again. The reflected image scowls back at him. His eyebrows widen in shock, and the reflection follows, and Enjolras realizes that that’s _him_. 

 

His hair is long, now, and curly, and looks like it’s falling out of some haphazard ponytail. His face has become more masculine and refined, and when he lifts his hand, still staring at the reflection as his fingers rub his jawline, he realizes he’s got stubble. “Holy crap,” he whispers. His heart _soars_ , for a moment.

 

And then he promptly goes back to panicking.

 

Okay, so this is a dream, he thinks, where he’s thirty years old and in a stranger’s apartment and—what’s the point? He’s dreaming but _why this, why now_? He collapses into the chair again and rubs his forehead. It’s something he’d seen his foster mom do before, but never really understood. He thinks he finally gets what she meant when she told him that life was giving her a migraine.

 

He's about eighty percent certain he fell asleep as a thirteen year old, after all.

 

There’s mail on the coffee table, not yet opened, and it’s addressed to him. “I _live_ here?” he whispers to himself, shocked. None of this makes sense. “I’m dreaming. I have to be dreaming. But why, wh—”

 

He stops abruptly when an odd musical sound starts to fill the air. He doesn’t know how to describe it because it doesn’t make sense, except that it’s _annoying_ , and it sounds like it’s coming from behind him except there’s nothing _there_. He stands up, frustrated and more than a little confused, and moves closer to the coats, where the sound seems to be coming from. He’s about to lift up the coat when the sound cuts off, right as someone knocks on the door. Enjolras startles unnecessarily, nearly falling over the back of the couch, and stares in horror at the door.

 

“Oi!” calls whoever is behind it. “Enjy! Let me in, dude, I need my jacket, I’m gonna be late for work.”

 

He doesn’t recognize the voice, but then again he doesn’t recognize _anything_ in this hellscape, so very carefully he picks up both of the jackets and walks gingerly to the door. The pounding continues.

 

“Christ, Enjolras,” the voice whines. “Please!”

 

Quickly, he tugs the door open.

 

The guy on the other side lowers his fist from where he’d been about to knock, posture relaxing when he sees Enjolras. “Finally,” he sighs. “I’d kick your ass if you made me late for work. Are you getting ready to head out too? You look like you just rolled out of bed, not complaining, it’s not a bad look, but—you know your ride is waiting for you, right?”

 

Enjolras just gapes, open-mouthed, at the ginger-haired man. The guy sighs and takes one of the coats out of Enjolras’s arms. He slips the worn leather jacket over his shoulders and frowns slightly. “Are you feeling okay?”

 

“Uh,” Enjolras says. He blinks. “I think I’m dreaming.”

 

The guy laughs. “Whatever, dude. I forgot that you’re literally insufferable in the mornings. Get some coffee and go to work like a normal person, I’ll see you tonight!”

 

Enjolras watches blankly as the guy starts down the hall. He doesn’t recognize _anything_ about this building, not the wallpaper, not the potted plant outside his door, not the gold numbers, not the man. He snaps himself back just enough to call out, “My ride is here?”

 

The guy gives him a thumbs up.

 

Enjolras blinks stupidly again, but then the door across from him opens and an odd-looking old woman  holding a dog in her arms smiles kindly at him. “You’re more than welcome to come visit your old neighbor if you want to play hooky at work today, sweetheart,” she laughs, winking at him. Enjolras splutters, mostly out of lack of knowledge of anything _else_ to do, and stumbles rapidly back inside.

 

He thinks, his best shot at figuring out what the hell is going on here is to go get in a car he doesn’t know with people he doesn’t know in a _place_ he doesn’t know, because _something_ has got to make sense once he gets to this job of his he apparently has. He takes a deep breath. Okay, before he left for school, he always needed his backpack, his keys, his coat, and his shoes. The coat is in his hands, so dazedly he slips it over his shoulders. There’s keys hanging from a hook right by the door, which seems his style since he so often lost his other ones, so he grabs them and slips them into his pocket. _Shoes_ , he thinks desperately. _Backpack_.

 

In the room he’s guessing is supposed to be his own, he goes immediately for the tattered pair of converse at the foot of his bed, thinking that they must be his favorite pair of shoes if they look like _that_ and they keep them. He realizes, half-insanely, and just a bit too late, that the shoes are too big for him. “They aren’t even mine?!” he whines.

 

The annoying music starts up again. 

 

“What _is_ that?”

 

He ignores it in favor of snooping around the room, until he finds a pair of boots by a desk that look promising. These shoes actually fit, and on the floor next to them is a laptop bag with a Post-It note dangling off the front reading, _don’t forget your lunch this time!!!!!! xxxx_

 

He figures it’s important, so he grabs it and nearly stumbles out of the closet in his haste to get out of this place.

 

Enjolras can’t shake the feeling that he’s forgetting something—besides a lunch, as the Post-It note so kindly reminds him—but there’s people waiting for him outside and it’s his best chance at figuring out what the hell is going on, so he rushes out the door and shuts it behind him without looking back.

 

He’s only just gotten out of the elevator and stepped out onto the street when the music starts playing again. “What the hell is that?!” he exclaims again. He grabs a stranger rushing past him, and hisses, “Do you hear that? Do you hear the music?”

 

“Get off me, psycho,” the guy mutters, detaching himself.

 

Enjolras twirls around, inexplicably overwhelmed, and he’s about to give up and just crawl back into that unfamiliar bed and sleep until he wakes up back in reality when a voice calls his name. “Oh, finally. Enjolras, right here, get in the car.”

 

Parked at the curb is a taxi with it’s door open, and perched next to it is a short Latino man with styled curls and a nice dress shirt, pants, and suspenders on. He’s wearing a bowtie, though it’s tied incorrectly, and his dress shirt is slightly wrinkled, like he realized too late that it was his only option and just threw it on. He’s got an odd device up to his ear, and he smiles warmly at Enjolras and gestures to the cab. “No, don’t start the meeting yet! I told you to hold them off! No, we’ve got a great idea for the next series, we need to be the ones to present it, and if you let _him_ go first then we’ll never get the chance to because he’ll never shut up. Distract them, we’re almost on our way. Enjolras, car, now.”

 

“No,” Enjolras says, too quietly, but he _can’t_. He thought this was his answer, but he doesn’t recognize the man, and he doesn’t recognize this street, and none of this makes sense. He spent years in foster care and the most valuable thing he learned was to trust his gut. His gut was screaming that none of this made sense, though, and wasn’t giving him any actual solid advice, so he was pretty much screwed.

 

“I don’t know, tell them about the girl you met and proposed to the other night. I don’t _care_ that you were drunk, it’s a funny story! It’ll keep them distracted, _please_ , for the sake of our magazine. That’s how important this series will be, man, serious enough to save our magazine. Yes. _Yes_. Oh my god, you’ll be fine, just—please! Enjolras, _let’s go_.”

 

“Enjolras, what the hell is going on?” chimes in a new voice, one Enjolras has never heard before. Sitting inside the taxi and looking back and forth between Enjolras and the man arguing with someone on the phone is a dark-skinned man with thick-rimmed glasses and a concerned look on his face. He’s also dressed professionally, though his appearance is far neater than that of his flustered companion outside the car.

 

“Yes, we’re literally about to drive away right now,” says the curly-haired one, giving Enjolras an exasperated look. “Enjy, will you please get in the car? We’re running late. Jesus, who dressed you today? Wait, are those yesterday’s clothes? _Oh my god_. You’ve got a story to tell me and I demand to know everything. And I’ve got a spare coat I can loan you so no one else at the office notices you’re showing up in yesterday’s sweater—no, I’m still here, did you distract them? Obviously not very _well_ , hang up the phone and go talk to them! We’ve still got so much to teach you, but that’s another time. We’ll be there soon— _Ferre_ , get him in the car!”

 

The other man—Ferre—sighs like he’s tired of both of their shenanigans, but extends his hand out the car towards Enjolras. Between Ferre’s gentle encouragement and the vibrant one’s persuading, Enjolras somehow ends up in the car sandwiched between two strangers he doesn’t recognize.

 

Panic starts to rise in his throat before he thinks, _hell_ , he didn’t even recognize _himself_ this morning; whatever madhouse he’s wound up in, he’s caught in the ride now.

 

The guy finally hangs up the phone and sighs loudly, shooting Enjolras an irritated glare. “I know you’re angry at me for running that article without your permission, but honestly, Enjolras, this is just childish. Did you have to make us late?”

 

“I’m—” Enjolras starts, but he’s still not used to how _deep_ his voice is so he cuts off abruptly and just stares blankly, surprised. The man’s face softens.

 

“I did it because I’m proud of you, you know that, right?” he continues. “Everything you’ve gone through, your journey, and the way you wrote it in that piece—Enjolras, it _had_ to be shared. You can be mad all you want but Lamarque is so pleased with you that she’s beside herself. You’ve made her proud.”

 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” says Enjolras earnestly. On his other side, Ferre coughs pointedly.

 

“Courf, please drop it, for all of our sakes,” he pleads, and he gives Enjolras a look that’s equal parts fond and exasperated. Enjolras is struck by the feeling that he’s shared that look with this guy a lot, despite the fact that he’s only just met him.

 

“Wait, Courf…” Enjolras mutters, then realization strikes him sharply. He whirls around and shouts, “ _Michel Courfeyrac?_ ”

 

Courfeyrac, all grown up now, and more handsome than ever, startles at the mention of his first name. “My god, no one’s used my first name since college,” he laughs. Enjolras grabs his hand.

 

“You went to college!” he cries, incredibly proud. Courfeyrac giggles at him.

 

“Yes, you _loon_ , it’s where we met Combeferre,” says Courfeyrac. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you must have gotten pretty damn wasted last night, you’re acting so odd.”

 

Enjolras lets go of his hand to reach up and grasp Courfeyrac’s face. “You got so handsome,” he coos. He’s a bit overwhelmed at how happy he is, to have found his best friend all grown up and pretty and successful in this surreal world were nothing makes sense. “Though you’re still short, which is impressive, and you’re still practically an overactive condensed ball of energy.”

 

Courfeyrac makes a noise of protest but he’s laughing as he pulls Enjolras’s hands away. “What’s wrong with you?” he murmurs. “Darling, check him for a fever.”

 

Enjolras bats away Ferre’s—Combeferre’s—hands as he reaches for Enjolras’s forehead. He’s smiling now, unable to stop, though none of this makes sense. If this really is Michel Courfeyrac, if this is some future version of him… Courf went to college, he got _handsome_ , he got a big impressive job that pays well enough for him to dress in expensive suits, he’s got a lovely man whom he calls _darling_. Enjolras may be confused and panicked, but if this is something he’s spun together in his head he’s glad his best friend is doing so well.

 

“I don’t have a _fever_ ,” Enjolras says petulantly. He continues batting away Courfeyrac’s hands as his friend reaches over and over for Enjolras’s forehead, just because it makes him laugh. Courfeyrac truly hasn’t changed. “Where are we going?”

 

Combeferre sighs. “Enjolras, _honestly_ , did you drink last night?”

 

 _Last night I was just a teenager_ , thinks Enjolras, _so I don’t think so_.

 

“Um, no,” he says after a beat. He’s trying to frown at them but there’s this smile spreading across his face every time he hears the deep tenor of his voice.

 

“We’re going to work, silly,” Courfeyrac tells him, because he’s got the patience of a saint apparently. “Did you have sex? Is this why your brain is so muddy today? Is that why you’re wearing _yesterday’s clothes_?!”

 

Enjolras takes it all back, Courfeyrac isn’t a saint, he’s still a disobedient child.

 

“ _No_ ,” he hisses, but he thinks about the tattered shoes at the foot of his bed that are a size too large for him and he wonders what the hell kind of life he’s dreamed up for himself. Courfeyrac squeals loudly and Enjolras realizes that he still hasn’t gotten any better at controlling his facial expressions.

 

“ _Who_?” Courfeyrac demands. “Oh my god, Ferre, this is the day I’ve been waiting for. Who, who, _who_?!”

 

“No one!” Enjolras says sharply. “You haven’t gotten any less annoying, have you?”

 

Courfeyrac rolls his eyes and refocuses his attention on the device in his hands. “You act like you don’t spend every damn day of your life hanging out with me,” he mutters. His fingers fly rapidly over the small screen. Enjolras peers at it curiously. Everything about the device is curious to him, but then he supposes, this whole world makes no sense.

 

“What are you doing?” he asks, unable to keep his curiosity to himself any longer.

 

Combeferre gives him a sidelong glance, and Courf blinks twice. “Sending an email? Ferre, I think we need to take Enjolras for coffee before going into work today.”

 

“I’ve already texted Bahorel, he’ll have something ready for us when we get there,” says Combeferre easily, and when Courfeyrac beams brilliantly at him it’s beautiful and cheesy and Enjolras’s heart constricts in a way he’s unable to identify. It’s evident that the two of them are irrevocably happy, sickeningly in love in the way you can only dream of being one day. Even as Enjolras sits between them, it’s like they can’t get enough of one another, reassuring and loving and on the same page in everything they do.

 

“You’re an angel,” singsongs Courfeyrac, and Combeferre winks at him.

 

“Enjolras, love, fix your hair, you look rumbled,” Combeferre responds.

 

Enjolras is _warm_.

 

Courfeyrac is still unable to shut up, even after all these years, so he rambles mostly to himself as he continues to tap away at the small screen in his hands. Enjolras is watching, enraptured, when _yet again_ the annoying music starts to play.

 

“What is that?” he whines, far too exhausted for this day to only be beginning. Combeferre frowns at him.

 

“It’s your cell phone,” he says, reaching into Enjolras’s coat pocket and pulling out a device identical to Courfeyrac’s. The screen is lit up, with the word _Valjean_ displayed on the very front of it. “You probably should take this, if he’s calling you.”

 

“Who’s Valjean?” Enjolras asks.

 

Courfeyrac and Combeferre look at him in shock.

 

“Seriously, Enjy, what’s wrong?” Courf says quietly. He sounds far too serious. Enjolras looks back and forth between him and Combeferre. “Valjean is our boss.”

 

“Did you increase the dose of your hormones?” Combeferre asks. “Is that why you’re behaving so strangely? This could be a side effect, and if it is you need to let your doctor know immediately so we know if it’s something that needs to be remedied.”

 

“What are you _talking_ about?”

 

“We’re here,” Courfeyrac interrupts. “Can we have this discussion on our way up? I’m really worried but also I don’t trust Pontmercy’s socializing skills and he can only hold off a room full of angry editors for so long.”

 

Combeferre squeezes his hand reassuringly.

 

Enjolras isn’t sure how he’s ushered out of the car but he trails after Courfeyrac with nothing else to do as Courf dials another number and holds his phone up to his ear again. Combeferre appears behind him, and Enjolras takes his shot.

 

“I don’t think it’s a side effect,” he says quickly. “None of this seems— _real_ , I don’t know! All I know is that I’m not supposed to be here, I don’t think this is my life, yesterday I was just barely a teenager and today I have my own apartment and a _job_ apparently and—”

 

Combeferre reaches out and grabs his shoulder. “Enj,” he says carefully, steering Enjolras into a building and helping him into an elevator. The guy is _tall_ , like really tall, and Enjolras wonders stupidly how tall _he_ is now. “I think I get what you’re stressed out over. I know it seems like just yesterday we were kids, like just yesterday we were college students writing editorials for our self-published book and dreaming of this day but. We worked hard to get here, all of us did, and we’ve come a long way since the people we were in college, or even in high school. We’ve got a magazine to save, so come on. Let’s just focus on succeeding during this meeting, yeah? One thing at a time.”

 

That’s _not_ what he meant but Combeferre doesn’t _get_ it and Enjolras isn’t sure how to make him get it, so he just bites his lip and nods, and sets his sights immediately on figuring out how the hell he’s going to fake it through this apparently-very-important meeting. Combeferre smiles at him, and Courfeyrac slips the phone into his pocket finally.

 

“Here’s what we’re going to do,” he says resolutely. Enjolras is glad they’re alone in the elevator, he thinks he’d be embarrassed by Courfeyrac’s behavior otherwise. “You just need some confidence. So, I’ll give you some, because we _have_ to make this meeting our bitch. Repeat after me. I am Enjolras, big-time magazine editor and journalist.”

 

Enjolras blinks stupidly. “I _am_?”

 

“ _Repeat it_!”

 

He takes a deep breath. “I _am_ Enjolras, big-time magazine editor and journalist.”

 

“I’m a fucking badass.”

 

Enjolras looks at Courfeyrac with wide eyes. All he gets for his efforts is an unimpressed look back from Courf. “I’m a… _fucking_ _badass_.”

 

“I’m going to walk into that meeting, I’m going to make this meeting my bitch, and then I’m going to singlehandedly this month’s edition the most successful one yet, with the help of my amazing best friends.”

 

“I’m going to—Courf, that was a _lot_ to remember—”

 

“Because the _future_ of Perspective depends on me.”

 

Enjolras is about to repeat it, but the impact of the words hit him suddenly, and his face softens as he looks at both Courfeyrac and Combeferre in stunned silence. “Perspective?”

 

Courfeyrac rolls his eyes. “Is he always this unintelligible after sex, because this is getting absurd.”

 

“I _didn’t_ —!”

 

Courfeyrac doesn’t dignify him with a response, just grabs his hand as the elevator chimes and drags him out into the foyer. As they enter the main editing floor for Perspective Magazine, Enjolras struggles to keep up with his friends and take it all in.

 

There’s a secretary at the front, with flowers braided throughout dark strands of hair, smiling even while on the phone. Courfeyrac winks and calls, “Morning, Jehan!” then leans in closer to Enjolras to whisper, “Don’t forget, they recently asked us to change what pronouns we use in their reference, so refer to Jehan with they/them. I believe Combeferre is hosting a company meeting to discuss gender identity and proper protocol throughout the company sometime tomorrow, if you want to help.”

 

Enjolras’s heart is pounding out of his chest. He works for _Perspective Magazine._ All of this is—so insane. If this _is_ a dream, Enjolras is starting to realize why he picked this future for himself. This is what he wanted, that last night he remembers, yesterday but not. Easy, accepting, happy. He’s got a job at his favorite magazine, one of the most inclusive ones he’s ever found. He’s being asked to help direct meetings about how to best support coworkers and how to better understand gender, he’s surrounded by people who _love_ him and who worry about him and whom he already can tell he devotes all his time to.

 

Combeferre kisses Courfeyrac’s forehead and then disappears off to another direction, but Courfeyrac keeps his grip on Enjolras’s forearm and continues to lead him throughout the office. They’re approached first by a brick wall of a man, tall and muscular and wearing a tan suit with a pink dress shirt. His hair is neatly styled, long on top and short on the sides and dyed a fading light blue. He hands Courfeyrac and Enjolras two white cups with green logos.

 

“Coffee,” Courfeyrac breathes gratefully. Enjolras sniffs the cup curiously and is overwhelmed by a delicious smell, so he follows suit after Courfeyrac and takes a sip of whatever liquid heaven has been presented to him. “Thank you, Bahorel. You look very dashing today, the pink actually does wonders alongside the blue, how do you even do that—oh, speaking of fashion, will you fetch me my cardigan out of my office? The grey knitted one, that Jehan made me. Enjolras is a walking nightmare.”

 

The man—Bahorel—looks Enjolras up and down once and flinches. “Is that the sweater from yesterday? _Enjolras_.”

 

“That’s what I said!” laughs Courfeyrac. Enjolras blushes and looks down at his feet. “At least he fixed his hair.”

 

Bahorel makes a tutting noise and disappears, and Courfeyrac and Enjolras continue down the hall just to be stopped again. A dark-skinned woman with tight curls piled neatly atop her head steps in front of them and holds up two posters. “We’re running the queer prom story, should we match the layout colors to the theme of the dance or stick with the undertones of the entire magazine? This is an important story, we have to make sure it stands out just a bit.”

 

They’re both looking at Enjolras like he’s somehow supposed to know, so he takes a look at the posters and decides the one with the splashes of color looks better and points numbly. The woman nods and pushes past them. Courfeyrac nods approvingly. “Good choice. Stories like that have got to have a little bit of an edge, right?”

 

The next time they’re stopped it’s by a frazzled young man with light brown skin and freckles covering every bit of his panicked face. “Courf, I tried to distract them as much as possible, but the story you told me to tell, the _girl_ , it’s Valjean’s _daughter_ —”

 

“ _What_?!”

 

The boy’s already flushed skin grows darker. “She already told him the story,” he wails, “so when I told it he recognized me and now they all know!”

 

Courfeyrac looks like he’s on the verge of bursting into tears or into laughter, but he doesn’t have time to do either when someone is stepping back in their way and holding something out to Enjolras. It’s the gray knitted cardigan, and it looks ridiculously soft, so Enjolras hastily hands his coffee to the flustered young man, gives his laptop back to Courfeyrac, and throws his other jacket on the ground as he takes the cardigan out of the guy’s— _Bahorel’s_ —hands and slips it on.

 

“That was a bit dramatic, even for you,” Courfeyrac comments drily, but he slips the back back over Enjolras’s shoulder and takes back the coffee cup from the boy. Bahorel picks up Enjolras’s discarded cup and disappears into literal thin air again. “Marius, thank you, I’ll give you a huge bonus or something later so that you can take Valjean’s daughter out on a proper date. Enjy, let’s go, we’ve got a meeting.”

 

They’re ushered off at the same time that Enjolras is pushed unceremoniously into the conference meeting. There’s already the majority of the seats around the table filled, and even though it’s evident that Courfeyrac and Enjolras are the last to arrive, the members seated smile warmly at the both of them. “Excellent,” says the woman standing at the front. “I take it that your lateness is due to some outstanding reason, but for now, let’s get started.”

 

“ _Before_ we’re subjected to another one of the baboon’s stories about his poor attempts to woo my daughter,” says a man seated to the right side of where the woman stands. He’s got an old face, but a kind one, and even though his words are grumpy there’s the faintest of traces of a smile at the corners of his mouth. Enjolras assumes this is Valjean—and instantly, he decides to trust him. There’s various chuckles throughout the room, accompanied by Courfeyrac’s sigh.

 

“He’s very clever, but he’s an intern, so he’s not very bright,” Courfeyrac laughs. “Give me a few more months to train him. And terribly sorry about our lateness, Madame Lamarque, we ran into quite a few obstacles this morning.”

 

Courfeyrac has moved to take a seat, not realizing that Enjolras is still frozen to the spot. He’s still talking, charming everyone in the room and warming them up before the meeting starts, when his sentence trails off abruptly and he stares hard at Enjolras. Enjolras jumps. Courfeyrac looks very pointedly at the open seat next to him. Enjolras collapses into it, undignified, and when a few pairs of eyes dart to him he waves out of lack of anything better to do and immediately returns to drowning himself in coffee.

 

“Anyway,” Courfeyrac stalls. He gives Enjolras a concerned look. “Forgive Enjolras, he’s been a little out of sorts today.”

 

The woman at the front—Lamarque, Enjolras assumes—makes a distressed sound. “Enjolras, this isn’t because we decided to run that article of yours, is it? I received notice that you didn’t, ah, give final approval on its’ submission to me and it would take pulling some strings but we can pull it if it’s a story you’re not ready to share.”

 

Enjolras is overwhelmed at the amount of people nodding their head in sympathy, although Courfeyrac sinks into his chair and has the decency to look guilty. He’s not sure what this article is about, and he knows that he should probably be a little more upset with Courf over whatever he did, but—hell, he just woke up in this timeline, what does he care?

 

“No,” he says resolutely, and it’s the first time he’s sounded confident all day. _It’s time to fake it until I make it,_ he thinks, maybe a bit hysterically. “Run the article. I’m—uh, I’m proud of it, and it evidentially means a lot to the staff to have it run, so. It’s yours.”

 

Lamarque grins proudly at him. “Excellent,” she says firmly. “This could help us exponentially. That being said, our numbers are… not improving as much as we need. Our magazine is still on the decline. The gala tonight has become even more crucial at this point, so we’ve truly got to give it our all. If we can’t get our numbers up—”

 

“Madame Lamarque,” Courfeyrac chimes in, raising his hand tentatively. “We’ve all been brainstorming ways to increase our numbers, and some of us have some points we’d like to bring up this meeting. I know that Éponine had some thoughts about how to make the gala more successful, and Enjolras and I have come up with a new series of articles to publish that we think will gain us lots of positive attention.”

 

“Some of us have been thinking about introducing a health and lifestyle section in the magazine,” pipes up a new voice. He’s wearing a soft white sweater and his hair is cut short and styled. He smiles at the room at large; Enjolras gets the sense that this guy bleeds happy wherever he goes. “This is a political magazine, yes, but it’s an LGBT political magazine, and what’s more crucial to LGBT politics than advocating for safe sex and health awareness?”

 

There’s a murmur throughout the crowd. Lamarque looks intrigued, despite the way her brow furrows as she looks at the man. “It’s an interesting proposal. Draft up an example article, Joly, and submit it to me by Monday, we’ll get an answer to that as soon as possible.”

 

Enjolras falls out of interest in the meeting rapidly, especially since he’s got no ideas to contribute. While another staff member is discussing broadening the audience, Enjolras leans over towards Courfeyrac. “Tell me more about the gala?” he whispers. Courfeyrac side-eyes him.

 

“I thought you didn’t like parties,” he murmurs back, suspicious. Enjolras shrugs. “Lamarque told you that you weren’t required to go, though the rest of us are still going to be there. It’s a fundraiser for an LGBT Youth Center downtown, hosted by Perspective. We really have to publicize this—well, you know why. Are you going to come?”

 

He doesn’t really have to think about it for long. “Yeah, I’ll come,” he says. “Can I bring someone?”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Courfeyrac becomes insufferable for the next few hours.

 

“But _who_ do you want to bring?” he demands.

 

Enjolras waves him away. “Do we have, like, a phonebook here? Where is it?”

 

“No, we don’t have a _phone_ book, this isn’t the 1800s, but if you’re looking someone up you can use Facebook, like a normal person—what am I talking about, you don’t even have a Facebook, because you’re a heathen. Enjolras, don’t do this to me, _who do you want to bring_? Ten minutes ago you couldn’t have been bothered to show up!”

 

Enjolras lets out a victorious cry when he reaches an office that has his name on the door. He touches the gold letters with pride. “I have my own office,” he whispers to himself. Courfeyrac remains oblivious. “Courfeyrac, calm down.”

 

“But—”

 

“Can you show me how to use Facebook or are you going to keep bothering me?”

 

Courfeyrac starts to reply, but Enjolras doesn’t really hear it because he’s slipping into his office and the second he takes a step in he has to catch his breath. It’s gorgeous and it’s _his_ and he hasn’t seen it since waking up in this weird reality but it’s so undeniable that this is his space that he can’t help but gape in wonder at it all. There’s a desk, simple and organized, with a chair for him and chairs on the other end; on the other wall is a sofa and a coffee table, and by the window are easels and papers tacked to bulletin boards and half-empty coffee cups and notebooks stacked upon one another. It’s cluttered but it isn’t overbearing, and even just by sorting through it a bit Enjolras already has a sense of where to find anything he needs in this place. On the wall behind his desk is a gorgeous piece of artwork, abstract and filled with brilliant, vibrant hues. And on the other wall, hanging above the chairs, are picture frame after picture frame.

 

He goes to examine them.

 

Courfeyrac has laid claim to one of the chairs at the desk, but he’s stopped talking in favor of watching Enjolras curiously. There’s a lot of people in the photographs, some familiar faces. Courfeyrac and Combeferre, obviously; Bahorel, Jehan, and Joly, all people he’s met since coming into work today. The redheaded neighbor Enjolras met this morning, and the woman who asked for his opinion before disappearing. In one of the pictures is the flustered intern, Marius. There are lots of pictures of another woman, usually standing next to Joly or another man with a bald head, some with a young boy who is always flanked by the curly-haired woman, and a man with tousled curls most often wearing a beanie. All of these people, whoever they are, recur in so many of the pictures he has hung up on his wall. Pictures of them at the fronts of crowds with painted faces, pictures of them at bars, pictures of them in apartments, sometimes a group of three, sometimes all of them are crammed into the frame. And on one spot of the wall, there’s bareness, and the faintest trace of a photo that used to reside there but was recently taken down. He touches the spot gingerly with the pad of his thumb.

 

“Enjolras?” Courfeyrac says. He sounds sad.

 

“Yes?” He startles, but turns around quickly. Courfeyrac gives him a slow, soft smile. “Sorry. I just—we all look so. We look happy. It’s nice.”

 

Courfeyrac nods. “We are happy,” he reassures Enjolras. There’s something at the edge of his tone that tells Enjolras there’s more to the story, but Enjolras doesn’t even know where the story _starts_ so it’s easy to ignore. “Look, I’ve got to meet Combeferre, we’re going to start plotting out this article series, do you want to come?”

 

Enjolras hesitates. “No, I’ve got—I’m gonna work here, for a while. I’m okay.”

 

Courfeyrac looks like he doesn’t really believe Enjolras but he doesn’t exactly have a choice, so he smiles back at him again and stands up to grab Enjolras’s hand. “I’m proud of you,” he says. Enjolras doesn’t know to what he’s referring, or why Courfeyrac thinks that _this_ is what will make him feel better, but he does smile back in response. It’s nice to hear, anyway, even if it is all confusing. “You’ve come a long way, and you deserve this. All of it.”

 

“Oh.” Enjolras blinks. Then, without really having to think about it, he grabs Courfeyrac into a hug. “Thank you.”

 

“Jesus, hey, you’re welcome,” Courfeyrac laughs, breathless and surprised. His arms are still tight and warm and _wonderful_ and Enjolras didn’t know he had this much love for people inside of him but he never wants to lose it. “Don’t work too hard, okay? Come see us if you need a break.”

 

And then he’s gone, and Enjolras is alone is his very own office.

 

The first thing he does is try to search for the missing picture—it’s futile, he knows, because he’s got a mission and he should be focusing on _that_ —but he’s always been too curious for his own good. The search ends unsuccessfully. There’s no loose pictures anywhere that he can find. Enjolras collapses dramatically into his chair and stares pensively at his desk.

 

“Next item of business,” he says to himself, “what the hell’s a Facebook?”

 

 

 

He gets Marius to help him.

 

The kid is nice, wicked smart, and willing to help Enjolras despite the latter’s evident confusion and growing frustration. Enjolras wonders why everyone teases him so often, but then as Marius is showing him how to add friends, he goes on a tangent about the one time he accidentally added his journalism professor on Facebook right after posting a video of him at a party the night before finals—then Enjolras gets it.

 

Still, Marius blushes a lot and stammers through apology after apology if he thinks he’s somehow offended Enjolras, and Enjolras decides to like him. Once he’s got the gist of Facebook, he places his hand on Marius’s forearm and says very seriously, “Marius, thank you. This has helped a lot. Now I’m sure you’ve got more important things to do than help me figure out technology, so you’re free to go.”

 

Marius looks shocked. It worries Enjolras, that Marius seems taken aback by kind behavior, but then he smiles warmly at Enjolras and thanks him profusely before stumbling out the door.

 

And it’s back to his mission.

 

The first thing he does is try to find Courfeyrac and Combeferre, because he figures that they’re friends with anyone he needs to know. He adds Combeferre first, and finds Courfeyrac through him. He’s in the midst of going through Courf’s pictures and familiarizing himself with the names of everyone in the pictures when he reaches one of himself with Courfeyrac and the curly-haired man from the other pictures on Enjolras’s actual wall. He hesitates on the picture. There’s no caption on this one, and no one is tagged—probably because Enjolras only just got a Facebook. Courf is in the middle, arms around the shoulders of the other two like he’s lived there his whole life. They’ve all got graduation caps on their head and grins on their faces, like they’ve just personally liberated the entire world. Courfeyrac is glancing somewhere out of frame, eyes lit up with joy and pride. The other man has his head thrown back in laughter, his hair carefully arranged underneath his cap and his smile brighter than anything else in the photo. He’s got a diploma in one hand and the other one around Courfeyrac, supporting him. Enjolras—his hair is significantly shorter, just starting to become curly, and they all look so _young_ … His picture self is staring at the man with an enraptured look on his face, evident even amongst the happiness and pride and fondness and excitement that take over his facial expression. It’s everything and it makes his heart constrict and he wishes he could _remember_ it, because he’s fairly certain that’s the happiest he’s ever been.

 

It’s the first picture Courfeyrac ever posted on Facebook.

 

Enjolras scours through the others again, clicking on every one that includes the man with the dark curls, but he’s not tagged in any of them. Giving up briefly, Enjolras clicks back on the last picture, and tries to memorize every detail.

 

His office door opens without warning, and in barges Courfeyrac already talking a thousand miles a minute. “Do my eyes deceive me or did you add me on _Facebook_ , you got a _Facebook_ account? I was making a joke but you actually—”

 

Courfeyrac cuts off suddenly as he’s made his way around Enjolras’s desk and come face to face with the picture taking over Enjolras’s screen. His posture drops. “Oh,” he murmurs. His hand drops onto Enjolras’s shoulder. “Enjy, don’t do this to yourself.”

 

Enjolras furrows his brow. “Do what?” he asks.

 

“ _This_ ,” Courf says, like it clears everything up. He sighs sadly and reaches forward to close Enjolras’s laptop. “You can’t torture yourself like this. You both need time, okay, it was a big fight and you have to give him time to calm down. You know he cares too much about all of us to disappear for good but—you really hurt his feelings, Enjolras, and you’ve got to let him come to terms with it.”

 

“What did I do?” Enjolras demands. Panic is starting to rise in his throat, and he thinks he may actually be sick. He knows who the man is, he _knows_ he has to know, and if he’s right and Courfeyrac is right and he did something to _hurt_ him, Enjolras will never forgive himself. “Oh my god, what did I _do_?!”

 

Courfeyrac spins Enjolras’s chair so that he can grip both of his shoulders. “Stop,” he says seriously. “No freaking out. It’s too late—it’s already done. You’re not doing any of us any good by moping now.”

 

Enjolras wants to argue, he wants to shake Courfeyrac and demand to know everything that happened, but he stops himself before the words can tumble from his mouth. If he’s still dreaming, or if he somehow managed to get a wish magically granted, then this is the life he wanted. It’s what he _dreamed_ of, it’s when things are finally easier, and—he hates it, but he tries to force himself to focus on the logic of that. He wouldn’t dream himself an imperfect life.

 

 _Right?_ he thinks desperately.

 

“Come on, let’s get you home, we’ve got things to get done before the gala tonight.”

 

“The gala—” Enjolras says quickly. “Wait, I know this sounds absurd, but—this gala, what am I supposed to do there? I wasn’t even planning on attending, am I supposed to like… I don’t know, this is just stressful, please tell me what to expect!”

 

Courfeyrac rolls his eyes, though it’s fond. Enjolras is struck with the impression that nothing he does ever truly pisses Courfeyrac off. It warms his heart. “Well, it’s a fundraiser, so just wear your most dashing ensemble and charm the money out of people,” Courfeyrac laughs. Enjolras gives him a disgruntled, unhappy look. “You know I didn’t mean it like that. The purpose is we’re trying to help kids who were in a situation not unlike ours all those years ago. You don’t need to plan a dashing speech, you aren’t leading a revolution, you just need to show up and keep people there. And for god’s sake, don’t start any fights.”

 

“Why would I start fights?”

 

His comment earns him an unimpressed stare.

 

“Right, fair enough.”

 

“And,” Courfeyrac adds, though he hesitates. There’s an uncertain look on his face. “Enjy, everyone is going to be there so just—please try to be on your best behavior. Don’t stick your nose where it doesn’t belong.”

 

Enjolras isn’t quite sure what _that_ means, but he takes ‘everyone’ to mean everyone who’s important in his life, which means he’s about to see how good his memory is and if photographs hold up after years.

 

He tries not to panic.

 

 

* * *

 

 

He stands in front of his closet for an obscenely long time.

 

It’s just that—ever since he woke up in this dreamlike reality, he’s been repeatedly told how important this gala is, and he’s terrified that he’s going to somehow screw it up. He hasn’t got any sense of fashion, though he’d hoped on the entire ride back to his apartment that this future version of himself would somehow magically know exactly what to wear when he stood in front of his closet.

 

It’s evident that future-him has _some_ sense of how to buy clothes, at least, because the closet is full of them—the unfortunate part is he has literally no idea how to wear any of them.

 

Enjolras goes to find his cell phone.

 

About fifteen minutes later, his redheaded neighbor comes bursting into his apartment, looking exasperated and fond and determined. “You’re practically useless, you know,” is the first thing the man says. “This gala has been the only thing half of our friends have been talking about for months, so everyone has had their outfits picked out for _months_ , and you decide thirty minutes before the damned thing that you want to come. You’re just—Enjy, you’re so lucky we love you and your pretty face, you’d be hopeless without us.”

 

“You’re right,” Enjolras says earnestly. “Please for the _love of god help me_.”

 

The guy—Enjolras is about eighty percent certain that his name is Feuilly—squeezes Enjolras’s hand and then unceremoniously drags him into the closet. He looks disdainfully at Enjolras and sighs dramatically. Enjolras has a slightly hysterical thought that everyone future-him befriends is required to be dramatic. He giggles to himself.

 

“You’re not going anywhere with your hair looking like that, go get in the shower and when you’re done I’ll have something ready.” Feuilly shoos him away, and Enjolras goes easily.

 

The shower is probably the best thing that’s happened to him all day, and maybe it’s just because he hasn’t felt this stressed or confused for a long time, but as he sits under the water, every concern he has seems to melt away. He washes his hair, marvels at the curls and tries meticulously not to mess them up anymore, and spends a fair amount of time as he gets out of the shower tracing the faint scars on his chest above his ribs. Enjolras startles when Feuilly knocks on the door.

 

“Oi,” calls Feuilly. “Hurry up. I’ve got to go get ready, too, man.”

 

Enjolras hurries out. The outfit Feuilly has selected for him consists of black pants, a black dress shirt, a bowtie, and a maroon dinner jacket. Enjolras looks skeptically at it, and Feuilly rolls his eyes and tells him he’s got fifteen minutes to get the clothes on before he’ll be back to do something with Enjolras’s hair.

 

It’s kind of a work of art, Enjolras realizes, as he puts it on.

 

He supposes that future-him does have some sense of style, because the clothes are tailored to fit him and the colors blend well together. Enjolras swallows as he takes in his reflection, then slowly a smile breaks across his face. He slips the jacket off his shoulders and lays it carefully across his bed.

 

He’s in the middle of moisturizing his curls when Feuilly knocks on the doorframe to his room and enters. He lets out a low wolf-whistle when he catches sight of Enjolras, laughing when he makes the other man blush profusely. “Man, I’m good,” Feuilly gloats with a smirk.

 

Feuilly himself is wearing a navy blue suit and a dark grey shirt and tie. Enjolras smiles. “Yeah, you clean up pretty good, yourself,” Enjolras responds. Feuilly rolls his eyes as he steps into the bathroom and bats Enjolras’s hands away from his hair. “Thank you. For helping me, I mean. You’re right, I’d be hopeless without all of you.”

 

In the mirror, Enjolras watches as Feuilly smiles involuntarily before coughing pointedly and returning his focus on Enjolras’s hair. “Yeah, I’m a godsend, tell me something you don’t tell me every damn day.”

 

In the end, Enjolras’s curls have been tugged and neatly tucked into a bun. His bowtie is crooked, so he makes to fix it, as Feuilly grabs his jacket for him. He looks _good_.

 

He’s sort of emotional about it, if he’s being honest.

 

“Hey,” he mutters. His brow furrows and he frowns, and Feuilly looks at him in concern. “I just—is… Is R coming?”

 

Feuilly takes Enjolras’s hand again. “Why do you think I worked so hard to make you look so good?” he teases. “We’ve all got people we’re trying to impress. But—Enjolras, I swear to god, don’t fuck it up again. If you so much as even _think_ something mean, I’ll kick your ass. If he needs space tonight, you give it to him.”

 

Enjolras swallows. He wishes he knew what he’d _done_. “I will,” he says, and he means it. This is the future he wanted—and granted, he’d expected Grantaire to be a more intricate part, _hoped_ he’d still be here after all this time, but… He’s not stupid enough to know that he’d do anything to keep R in his life, as fragile as their relationship is, for whatever reason. He’ll try to mend things. That’s his plan for the night, he’s going to _fix_ things, and then this world truly will be perfect.

 

 

 

They ride to the gala in a _limo_.

 

There’s so many people packed in the space that Enjolras gets a bit overwhelmed, but they’re all cheerful and greet him with hugs or kisses on the cheek, and the limo is filled with laughter and music and Courfeyrac’s antics and it’s _amazing_. Enjolras indulges a bit and climbs up through the moonroof, and when he takes in the sight of Paris at night he has to stop and catch his breath. It’s _beautiful_ , and it’s all his, in this world, and he can’t stop smiling as his friends holler and laugh down below him, teasing him.

 

He’s _alive_ and this is the life he dreamed of having.

 

The gala is an extravagant affair, decorated beautifully and filled with people dressed to the nines. The people he’s with immediately shepherd him over to the bar where they start placing their respective drink orders. When it finally gets to him, he orders the first thing that comes to his mind. “Champagne, please,” and his friends resume teasing him.

 

There’s a large dance floor but no one on it, people lingering on the sides and chatting easily. Enjolras thinks it looks amazing.

 

Courfeyrac makes a distressed noise. “This isn’t going well.”

“What? It looks amazing. Everyone’s enjoying themselves!”

 

Courfeyrac looks at him like he’s just grown a second head. “Enjy, darling, there’s hardly anyone here. And we’re an hour and a half into the party. We should be _packed_. We can’t make any money if people are leaving.”

 

“People are leaving?”

 

“This is a _disaster_!” Lamarque sighs, appearing out of nowhere and startling Enjolras nearly out of his shoes. “It’s barely ten and people are _leaving_. We haven’t even made half of our target goal yet—boys, it’s time for quick thinking, we’ve got to do something to get people to stay.”

 

Enjolras frowns. “Well, for one, play music with a melody,” he says tartly. “People can’t dance to this.”

 

Lamarque looks at him. “By all means, tell the DJ to play anything you want if you think it will help.”

 

“Oh,” Enjolras stammers, flustered. He’d drained his champagne, he realizes a beat too late, and so he’s mouthy and brash. “I’m—Madame Lamarque, I meant no disrespect, I apologize. I really just meant that—”

 

“Darling, stop blubbering and fix my party,” she says sharply, though she winks at him before disappearing again. Enjolras smiles. He passes his champagne flute into Courfeyrac’s hands.

 

“What are you doing?”

 

“Trust me.”

 

He walks across the dance floor with purpose, well-aware that the majority of the room is staring at him out of curiosity. When he approaches the DJ, he makes a split decision on the song and laughs along with the DJ when he cracks a smile. “Bangin’,” says the guy, and Enjolras turns as the music starts to play.

 

Courfeyrac is looking at him in wonderment as he starts to very timidly dance along to the song. He knows all the moves—everyone did, back then, and that’s what he’s banking on now. When he can tell that people are starting to smile and laugh as they realize what he’s doing, he gains just enough confidence to continue on as the lyrics start to play.

 

“ _The chills that you spill up my back keep me filled with satisfaction when we’re done, satisfaction of what’s to come_ —”

 

Courfeyrac joins him on the dance floor, grinning absurdly. “ _Groove Is In The Heart_? Seriously?”

 

Enjolras shrugs as he swings his arms in circles, laughing when Courfeyrac begins to follow his lead. “It worked, didn’t it? It got you to join me. The rest of them will come.” They body roll as the beat does, and the room fills vibrantly with laughter as people stumble over one another to join them on the dance floor.

 

Enjolras starts to recognize all the people from the photos, placing names to pictures to faces in front of him. Marius in grey pants and a black shirt, next to Éponine in a stunning yellow dress, Jehan in their paisley suit, Bahorel in black flirting with Feuilly in navy—Combeferre twirls Courfeyrac every now and then, both of them matching in their grey suits and blue shirts, and Joly with Bossuet and Musichetta wearing blue, black, and red respectively. It’s the most fun Enjolras can remember having, as other people join them and learn the moves if they aren’t already familiar with them, or just letting themselves feel the music. Lamarque herself even joins, muttering a quiet “ _fuck it_ ” that echoes through the room and makes her employees laugh as she joins them on the floor. There’s only one person missing, from what Enjolras can tell, and—

 

He spots a dark green dinner jacket and familiar black curls, short and neat, before the man slips behind a group of people not joining the dance. Enjolras’s moves stutter to a stop.

 

His heart pounds once, twice, in his chest.

 

With an apologetic look shot to Courfeyrac, Enjolras quickly slips off the dance floor and tries in vain to chase after the dark green coat. He’s disappeared, but it’s not an excessively large building, and Enjolras is determined. He gets stopped twice during his search, by people who congratulate him on how his articles have been doing. He thanks them as best he can, but even they can tell he’s distracted, so he slips away quickly.

 

It’s after he’s fleeing from the second person that he catches sight of a green jacket standing at the bar.

 

Enjolras’s breath catches in his throat.

 

“R?”

 

The man turns. It’s the same face, the same man from the pictures with his brilliantly vibrant eyes and tousled curls, the same bump in his nose that he got during grade school right after he and Enjolras met. His face is full of trepidation, and it stings. “Enjolras,” he responds. 

 

Enjolras feels like he could cry. “You got so tall,” he says in wonderment. “I mean, you were already so much taller than me but—you look great, you look —”

 

“I thought you weren’t coming?” R interrupts. Not unkindly, though it’s clear to Enjolras that Grantaire wishes he could be more firm. “What made you change your mind?”

 

He makes a spur of the moment decision.

 

“This is going to sound absolutely mad, but hear me out,” he says in a rush of words, “I woke up in this place but I have no idea what I’m doing here, the last thing I remember is my birthday party when I was _thirteen_ , and—”

 

Grantaire recoils as though he’s been hit. Enjolras trails off, out of concern. “Enjolras, please don’t,” he sighs. He rubs at his temple tiredly. “We—our lives are going in different directions, maybe it’s time to accept that.”

 

Enjolras blinks numbly. “But you’re my best friend, R.”

 

“We—” Grantaire stops. He looks sad, and Enjolras wants to hug him until everything is better. “We haven’t been best friends in a really, _really_ long time, E. I’ve got to go, they’re expecting me over there. It was nice to see you, but.” He hesitates. “It was nice to see you.”

 

He says it with an air of finality, like that’s just the end of _them_ and Enjolras doesn’t even get a say in it. This isn’t how this was supposed to _go,_ they were supposed to reunite and sparks would fly and things would feel right again. What the hell could have possibly happened in seventeen years to make Grantaire so quick to make an end of their friendship? And why now? Enjolras reaches forward numbly, trying to grab Grantaire’s arms, but the words of his friends echo in his head. He knows he owes Grantaire the space, but—

 

Watching as Grantaire slips back into the crowd and out of his line of sight is excruciatingly painful.

 

He’s still standing there, numb, when Lamarque finds him and give him a careful, happy hug. “Enjolras, that was incredible! And that song, so much fun. What on earth made you think of that, it was such a hit! I knew I could count on you.”

 

He smiles dimly. “Thank you, Lamarque, I appreciate the sentiment.”

 

“Why are you over here? Go enjoy the party. This is for you and your friends, after all, and now that we’ve got the ball rolling again we shouldn’t have anything to worry about. You’ve worked hard. Go enjoy yourself for a bit.”

 

On the dance floor, his friends have convinced the DJ to play _Thriller_ , so he grins to himself and kisses Lamarque’s hand before running hastily to rejoin his favorite people as they dance to every embarrassing song they can remember.

 

 

* * *

 

 

He spends his weekend reading every book about magazine publishing he can get his hands on, as well as finding every article of his ever published in Perspective. He binge-watches television shows and movies—there’s this thing called _Netflix_ that he finds revolutionary—and wears a face mask Jehan made him and contemplates chopping off his hair or doing something else drastic.

 

Enjolras scours the magazines for his friends’ articles as well, buys a notebook to fill it with notes he takes on his style of publishing and layouts and writing, and buys an entire bottle of champagne to enjoy, just because he can. It’s a relaxing weekend, and he _loves_ it—it’s all the things he would do if he could, home alone at his foster parents’ house if he was still thirteen.

 

He tries to call them, on the landline phone number he still remembers. It beeps at him a few times before disconnecting. Enjolras frowns, and he’s about to try again when his phone rings with a different call.

 

“Enjy!” Courfeyrac’s voice shouts, loud enough that he has to pull the phone away from his ear. “The lot of us are meeting at the bar in an hour, tell me you’ll be there! It’s to celebrate the gala, we raised nearly twice as much as our target goal and earned so much publicity. The next edition of the magazine is going to be wild—first round is on me, you’ve got to come!”

 

Enjolras rolls his eyes fondly but puts his book down and pauses Netflix and clambers out of bed. “Come pick me up and I’ll be there,” he says with a laugh. Courfeyrac cheers, and thirty minutes later Enjolras has changed into a nice-looking pair of jeans and a button down shirt when the taxi holding Combeferre and Courfeyrac stops outside his building.

 

Their bar is a dive-y looking placed called the Corinthe that turns out to be quaint and relaxed on the inside. It’s a small bar, which means it’s already been commandeered by their friends. They press a glass into Enjolras’s hand the second that the three of them enter the bar, and then Bahorel is saying, “To the world’s greatest magazine editor, and the hell of a party he decided to save last night!”

 

“Second best,” argues Courfeyrac, kissing Enjolras’s cheek when his friends laugh in response.

 

“Tied for first?”

 

“We can make that work.”

 

Enjolras raises his own glass. “To being thirty! And living in a world that’s starting to become the place we wanted it to be.”

 

They cheer, then drink, and it’s an easy night.

 

Grantaire is missing.

 

Enjolras tries not to dwell on it.

 

He finds himself seated next to Marius at some point, who is more than a little drunk. The poor guy leans heavily against Enjolras’s shoulder. “You’re a good boss,” he murmurs tiredly. Enjolras smiles. “I mean, you used to be really mean. You kind of scared me. And honestly you still do. But you’re nice now. And all our friends like you and you’re a good boss.”

 

“Marius, I was mean to you?”

 

Marius yawns and lifts his head. “Not terribly,” he says. He flinches. “Well, you had your moments. You told me several times I was just a lackey to you. Which—is an intern’s job, but it felt different coming from you. But now I think we’re friends.”

 

“We _are_ friends,” Enjolras says firmly. He’s horrified at himself, for being mean to an intern who most likely looks up to him. “You made it on my wall. You helped me figure out Facebook, you’re—you’re not just a lackey, I’m sorry I said that about you.”

 

Marius grins lazily. His hand finds Enjolras’s wrist, and he squeezes it. “You’ve said a lot of things you’re starting to regret, I think,” Marius says with resolution. “I forgive you.”

 

Enjolras gets an idea. “Marius, do you know what happened between Grantaire and I?”

 

“Blimey, are you drunk too?” giggles Marius. He sways a bit. “Everyone knows what happened between you and Grantaire. We were going to bring him onto the magazine as a photographer, you gave him a job right after he got rejected from another gallery. But then for some reason you dropped him, you just fired him and didn’t even give anyone any warning so then he had to go somewhere else. He’s doing portraits now, I think, but he’s still mad at you for what you did.”

 

Enjolras is horrified. His mouth drops open as he gapes at Marius in shock. “Why would I do that?!” he whispers.

  
At the front, the bell above the door jingles, signaling a new person’s arrival. Grantaire steps in, wearing a beanie and a fitted black coat and a smile on his face as Joly greets him happily. Enjolras watches, enraptured.

 

Following after Grantaire, holding his hand, is a petite woman with long black hair. On her finger is an engagement ring.

 

And everything in Enjolras’s head slots into place.

 

“Oh,” he says to himself. “That’s why.”

 

 

 

Her name is Floréal, and she’s lovely and kind and Enjolras can’t quite justify hating her but he wants to _so bad_. Apparently this is the first time Grantaire has brought her around, because everyone coos over her and gives her all their attention and asks her thousands of questions. Enjolras tries his hardest to get involved but all he can stomach doing is to sit in a booth sipping his beer and moping. Combeferre comes to sit with him, after a while.

 

“You’re pouting,” he observes. Enjolras flinches.

 

“Is it that obvious?” mutters Enjolras bitterly. He softens, after a beat. “She seems really great. I’m trying not to mope.”

 

Combeferre smirks. “A valiant attempt, evidently,” he says with a raised eyebrow. Enjolras glares at him halfheartedly. “Enjolras, I know this isn’t what you want to hear, but you have to try and support him. Whatever went down between the two of you, whatever caused you to decide to let him go—you’ve got to move on.”

 

Enjolras scowls. “Ferre, he told me flat out that he thinks we’re moving in different directions. We aren’t the same people, he said, we haven’t been for a while. How am I supposed to move on if he’s still going to be such a big part of our lives? I can’t—”

 

“E,” Combeferre interrupts. Enjolras falls silent as Ferre reaches across the table to grip his forearm. “What is this really about?”

 

“He… he was my best friend.”

 

“Grantaire never stopped being your friend.”

 

“No,” Enjolras agreed. “But—” and then it hits him. Everything he’s been feeling, the constant worry, the wonder, the doubts. The way he always searched for Grantaire among the crowd, the way he needed to know if R would be there, the way that the first thing he wanted to do was to find R when he woke up in a version of his life he didn’t recognize—all of it slots into place and Enjolras’s heart is heavy. “Oh.”

 

Combeferre gives him an encouraging half-smile.

 

“How long have I been in love with him?”

 

“I’ve suspected ever since I first met you, back in college,” responds Combeferre.

 

And it _stings_ , to know that he’s been harboring these feelings for so long, probably even longer—Enjolras thinks back to their almost moment, all those years ago that only feel like days, thinks back to the way they almost kissed and the people they could have been today if he hadn’t been so afraid. Grantaire’s found somebody in this version of reality that _isn’t Enjolras_ and it stings because it could have been, probably, maybe. This was the future he thought he wanted, up until the point he realized Grantaire couldn’t be a part of it.

 

He thought it was all about the nice apartment and the pretty office and the fancy job and the nice clothes. Enjolras got distracted by the nice things in his life and the shiny limo driving him to extravagant parties and the people cheering his name as he tells stories no one else dares to tell. He was disillusioned by the way everything seemed lovely—and it’s all crashing now.

 

He’s mean to interns, and he doesn’t talk to his parents, and he fires his friends for petty reasons, and Enjolras didn’t expect adulthood to be like this.

 

“I’m gonna go home,” he murmurs to Combeferre. “I’m not feeling well.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Monday comes with a pounding headache and a desire to stay in bed all day.

 

His alarm wakes him up much too early, and he stumbles out of bed towards his coffee maker and tries not to cry because he feels so sick.

 

He’s fifteen minutes late to work.

 

Lamarque frowns at him and Valjean gives him a stern look, and Courfeyrac looks like he’s either going to cry at Enjolras’s appearance or wrap him in a hug and never let go. He slinks into a chair around the conference table and mutters an ill-formed apology. Lamarque purses her lips.

 

“It’s time now to discuss something that I think you’ve all seen coming,” she says grimly. There’s murmuring around the table. “Our circulation numbers are exponentially low. We’re barely at six-hundred thousand total circulation. Meanwhile, Spectrum is coming up on one million. It’s—not looking good. They are our biggest competition and they’re nearly doubling us. Corporate has… dropped the ‘r’-word.”

 

Courfeyrac gasps. “Redesign?”

 

“Redesign _Perspective_?”

 

“That’s not fair, Spectrum is the newer magazine, they’re copying all of our content—and _we_ have to be the magazine to fold? Redesign is magazine suicide. That’s bullshit.”

 

“Well,” Lamarque says tiredly, raising her hands. The room falls quiet in an instant. “Either we redesign and miraculously manage to bring up our numbers, or corporate is pulling the plug on Perspective for good.”

 

“It’s a death sentence,” Éponine exclaims.

 

“No,” Enjolras finally says. “No, it’s not. It’s a chance to have some fun, if we let it.” All eyes turn to him, but for once he isn’t self conscious. This is what he dreamed of for years as a young kid consuming Perspective Magazine. This is everything he’s ever worked for. “If Spectrum wants to stay the same, follow the same pattern that LGBT magazines have been following for years, then let them. This isn’t 1996, folks. We have redefined what it means to be LGBT. We have changed our focus and have changed the minds of so many people already. Why can’t we change our magazine? It’s time for us to prove that the world’s perspective has changed and so can we.”

 

Everyone gapes at him in surprise. Courfeyrac, from across the table, looks concerned and upset. But Lamarque is smiling tightly at him. “Well. I trust that my dynamic editing team will be able to come up with some sort of miracle. We have two weeks to make this happen, people. Let’s get to work.”

 

The table is dismissed, and everyone stands at the same time. Enjolras moves to grab Courfeyrac’s arm, but is shaken off with an eye roll as Courfeyrac turns and walks towards Combeferre’s office. Confused at Courf’s behavior, Enjolras sighs to himself and retreats to his own desk.

 

“Enjolras, I’ve got your messages for you.”

 

He gestures for Marius to continue.

 

“This is from Argus, he says ‘I can’t believe you scooped my story to publish yourself, you selfish asshole. This is a new level of vile, even for you. I hope you lose your job at that shitty magazine’…and, uh.”

 

Enjolras bites his lip. “That was really mean,” he murmurs. Marius makes a sympathetic noise.

 

“Ms. Turpin called, she says ‘If you try to take another one of our layouts behind our back, we’ll sue you for everything you’re worth, watch your back—’”

 

“I don’t want to hear the rest of them right now,” Enjolras cuts off. “Just—put them on my desk for now, I guess. And—don’t schedule any appointments for me today, please. I. I need to find Courfeyrac, excuse me.”

 

Courf isn’t with Combeferre in his office, but when Enjolras is walking past the break room, he hears their voices.

 

“I just don’t know what’s going on with him,” Courfeyrac says roughly. “And he won’t even _talk_ to me. We’re supposed to be best friends. We’ve gone through so much shit together, you know? But he’s been _hiding_ this from me, and now. This nonsense he’s pulling about trying to redesign Perspective? What’s the purpose? Is he going to send those ideas over, too?”

 

“I think you’re being unfair,” interjects Combeferre.

 

“He _hid_ this from us! And does he think that I’m just going to cover his back and help him save this magazine?” Courfeyrac sounds furious. Enjolras has never heard him sound so upset before. There’s a sick feeling settling in the pit of his stomach that he can’t shake. What on earth prompted him to betray all his friends like this?

 

“Courf,” Combeferre sighs.

 

“I know he’s having a rough time,” snaps Courf. Then, a beat later, in a softer tone. “He fired Grantaire. And he didn’t even give me a reason. He just—did it, and assumed we’d all be okay. And now he’s acting weird, like he has no idea who we are half the time. I don’t know what’s going on with him. And I hate that he won’t tell me.”

 

Enjolras takes a step back before he overhears anymore. He feels sick to his stomach, worse than he felt this morning, and he retreats back to his office to close the door tightly and sit in there with the lights dimmed.

 

Somehow, he betrayed Courfeyrac’s trust. For some reason, he thought it was appropriate to fire Grantaire over a spiteful reason. His behavior seems so irrational—he wonders when he became this person. He scoops stories from other journalists, he lies to his friends, he lets his own inability to communicate affect the way others get their work done. This isn’t the life he wanted. This isn’t what he pictured. And he’s got to change it.

 

He pulls out his phone, and after two minutes of hesitation, hits send on a text message that could change the course of everything.

 

 

 

Grantaire meets him outside the Corinthe.

 

He wears a skeptical look on his face, and a threadbare grey hoodie. Enjolras smiles timidly. “Thank you for agreeing to meet me,” he says. “I think I’ve been trying to do this all wrong, and it’s time I fix it.”

 

Grantaire looks genuinely surprised. “Enjolras—”

 

“I know,” Enjolras interrupts. “I know you said you feel like we’re heading in different directions. But that’s my fault. And I’m sorry I hurt you. I don’t want to head any direction unless I know I can keep you in my life.”

 

There’s not much Grantaire has to say in response to that. They fall in line, walking step by step in sync. Enjolras watches their feet, takes note of Grantaire’s tattered sneakers. Something clicks. “Oh,” he murmurs. “I have your shoes, I think.”

 

Grantaire cracks a smile.

 

“I still can’t believe you’re getting married,” Enjolras says suddenly.

 

“In two weeks.”

 

It’s awkward—Enjolras knows that’s what this feeling is. He hates it, because as long as he’s known Grantaire he’s _never_ felt awkward around him, not even in the beginning. His heart is aching. He wonders if Grantaire can hear the way it cries out.

 

“Is she your soulmate? Floréal?”

 

Grantaire lets out a startled laugh, giving Enjolras an incredulous look. “My soulmate?” he repeats. He raises his eyebrow when Enjolras nods. “I don’t know if I believe in those anymore. I think it’s kind of naive, don’t you?”

 

Enjolras frowns. It’s not naive—it’s the stuff of legend, and it’s what Grantaire especially deserves. “But—you get goosebumps when you’re with her, right? When she says something that makes your heart skip a beat? Do you still get butterflies?”

 

“Jesus, Enj,” Grantaire says breathlessly. “I haven’t felt that way about a person since high school.”

 

“R.” Enjolras stops suddenly, reaching out and grabbing Grantaire’s arm. “Why—why are you being so nice to me? Do you know why I fired you? Do you know why I was so horrible to you over nothing?”

 

“I… I had a suspicion.”

 

Enjolras frowns. He’s trying desperately not to cry. “R, she seems lovely. She seems great. And if she makes you happy, then I’m happy for you. But I fired you because I found out you were engaged, and it hurt me. So I was selfish. You shouldn’t be so nice to me, you shouldn’t have—I don’t know why you agreed to meet with me. Do you know what kind of person I am right now? I betray all my friends for no discernible reasons. I… I did some really bad things in the name of the magazine, and it was all for nothing. I can’t get ahold of my foster parents from all those years ago, I don’t even know what happened with us. I’m not a nice person. And the thing is—I’m not thirteen anymore.”  
  


He feels like he's crawling out of his skin, and he's got to  _go_ , and there's so much he has to do. He feels like he hasn't got the time.

 

He lets go of Grantaire’s arm abruptly, turning on his heel and blending into the crowd of people. Faintly, he can hear Grantaire calling after him, but all he can focus on is getting home.

 

It’s time to start making things right.

 

 

* * *

 

 

He takes the first train he can out to Lyon, and he spends the entire ride staring out the window and making a list of everything he’s got to fix.

 

_Mom and Dad._

_Courf_

_Everyone??_

_The magazine_

_Grantaire_

 

His pencil hesitates over the last name for longer than is necessary. It will be the hardest relationship for him to mend, he thinks, but he’ll start but unabashedly supporting Grantaire from here on out. He has a few ideas on how he can amend their friendship, and they sit with him and simmer as he stares out the window and wonders what all of this is for.

 

A taxi takes him to his old home, and it looks almost exactly the same.

 

He stands in the front of the house for probably far too long, looking at the old shutters that have since been repainted, the new potted plant by the front door, the rose bushes in full bloom instead of halfway to death like he remembers. There’s a new car in the driveway, and the fence has been fixed. Next door, Grantaire’s old home stands the same as well, though the lawn is no longer kept and the windows are boarded down. It makes him sad.

 

But that’s nothing new, since he woke up in this place.

 

He’s standing in front of the door, about to knock, when he catches sight of the old marks carved into the panelling—his foster father, insisting that they document his height. Enjolras traces the marks with his thumb, the three ones he remembers and two more after that, the last one ending just above his nose. He smiles, faintly, to himself.

 

And the door opens suddenly.

 

“Oh,” gasps his foster mother. “Enjolras?”

 

“Mom,” he breathes, and the second he regains feeling he lurches forward and practically collapses into her arms. “I missed you so, so much.”

 

“Are you _alright_?”

 

“Love?” says his foster father, though he falters when he catches sight of Enjolras at the door. “Oh my god. Enjolras? Are you okay?"

 

Enjolras just cries, helplessly, while they hold onto him.

 

It’s all he can do.

 

They take him into the house and shut the door behind him, his old foster mom keeping her arms around him. The house has changed, rearranged and redecorated and everything is _different_ and Enjolras didn’t get to live through it and he hates that he thought this is what he wanted. She sits him down on the couch and his father presses a cup of warm tea into his hands, and they stroke his hair and wipe his tears as he leans on his mother and just cries.

 

He dozes off, and when he wakes up they aren’t next to him anymore. He sets to exploring the house—his old room has been converted into an office, for his mother, he supposes. They got rid of that horrible orange carpet that dominated the second floor and replaced it with neat hardwood and green walls. The picture frames that used to house pictures of him have been replaced with pictures of his foster parents on vacations with friends. And the basement, the last place he ever remembers being while living in this house, has been renovated and  expanded and looks entirely unfamiliar to Enjolras except for that old, old table that still stands in the same place. Enjolras sits down in front of it, rests his forehead against the edge, and closes his eyes tightly.

 

A storm starts to roll in, so his parents prepare him a bed on a pull-out couch and kiss him goodnight when he immediately crawls under the safety of the familiar covers.

 

An hour and a half later, when the thunder reaches a crescendo and Enjolras still can’t sleep, he carefully pads out of bed and wanders up the stairs to his parents room. Quietly, he slips into his parents’ bed, feeling more than a lot childish, and more than a little scared. His mother smiles tiredly at him and makes room, her hand coming up to stroke his face. “Hi, baby,” she whispers, and Enjolras closes his eyes and lets himself be childish again.

 

 

 

In the morning, they make him waffles, and his father sits across from him drinking his coffee as his mom pours more orange juice into all their cups.

 

“Dad?” Enjolras says quietly. His father looks at him in surprise—Enjolras wonders if he no longer calls these people his parents, in this life. His stomach is heavy. “Do you ever wish you could go back? Like, to another time?”

 

His dad laughs. “I wouldn’t mind giving back some of these wrinkles, if that’s what you mean.”

 

Enjolras smiles out of habit. His dad’s jokes are still bad, even after all this time. “Okay,” Enjolras agrees. He cuts off more of his waffle and pushes it uselessly across his plate. “But—if you were given one do-over, one chance to redo anything in your life, what would you change?”

 

“Nothing.” He doesn’t even skip a beat.

 

“Honestly?”

 

“Honestly.”

 

“But,” Enjolras presses, “did you ever make a really big mistake? Or a huge one, that changed your entire life? What about _that_?”

 

His foster father reaches across the table to grab his hand. “Well,” he says carefully. “I know I made a lot of mistakes. Perhaps the biggest one was letting you walk out that door without fighting harder to keep you in our lives. But. I don’t regret making any of them.”

 

“But _why_?”

 

“Because,” his father says. He squeezes Enjolras’s hand for emphasis. “If I hadn’t have made them… I wouldn’t have learned how to make things right.”

 

Enjolras blinks back the tears that threaten to spill, and gives his father a timid smile. “I’m sorry I walked out of your lives and didn’t look back.”

 

“We never stopped being proud of you, son,” says his dad. “Even when you left. Even when you told us not to call you our son anymore. That never changed.”

 

“I shouldn’t have said that.”

 

“You’re making it right now,” his mother interrupts. She steps up to him, and runs her fingers briefly through his hair. Enjolras smiles and leans into it. He’s loved, here, even after all this time. Maybe it isn’t too late to start fixing things. “And for the record, we never stopped considering you our son. You will always be my boy.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

He throws himself into work after that.

 

Enjolras finds all his old yearbooks, photo albums, and scrapbooks. He even digs out his old Perspective magazines from his parents’ house and drags them onto the train back to Paris. The majority of the photos, he finds, are taken by Grantaire. And they’re _wonderful_.

 

Enjolras compares issues of the most recent issue of Perspective to issues twenty years ago, makes notes on the retro style, tears out pages that he likes and makes notes of articles that were impactful. He writes a Post-It note and sticks it on his laptop, lest he forget.

 

_Call Grantaire ASAP!!!!_

 

 

 

Courfeyrac stops in to check on him, a few days later. “Hey,” he says quietly, knocking on the doorway. Enjolras looks up at him and gives him a hesitant smile.

 

“Hey.”

 

“You’ve been working late a lot these past few days, do you need anything?” Courfeyrac presses. He looks genuinely concerned, though Enjolras knows that there’s still a part of him that’s stung by whatever Enjolras did to betray him.  
  
“I’m okay,” he says honestly. “Just working really hard on this redesign, is all.”

 

Courfeyrac shifts uncomfortably. “I meant to call you, about that,” he mutters. “I’ve been…busy, is all.”

 

Enjolras waves his hand in the air. “Honestly, Courf, don’t worry about it. I brought this project on myself—even if I didn’t, I am most likely the reason that we have to redesign anyway. Work on what you need to. I’m covering this.”

Courfeyrac has the decency to look shocked. “You don’t have to take blame for this—”

 

“I do,” interrupts Enjolras. He gives Courfeyrac a firm look. He’s flipped to a page in the yearbook that proudly displays Courfeyrac, Enjolras, and Grantaire at prom, all looking dashing despite their poor haircuts and oversized suits. He traces the outline briefly as a small smile spreads across his face. “It’s my fault. All of it. And I’m going to fix it.”

 

Courfeyrac, despite his best efforts, grins back at Enjolras. “There’s my best friend, back from the dead.”

“And I’m not going anywhere, either.”

 

At that, Courfeyrac sits down beside him, and lets Enjolras explain in great detail what exactly it is he’s planning to do. With Courfeyrac’s help, he gets the approval from Lamarque to hire an employee for the next week. Courfeyrac leaves with a quick kiss pressed to Enjolras’s forehead, and Enjolras is left alone in his taxi staring at a check in one hand and a phone in the other.

 

It turns out wonderfully.

 

The next day, he meets Courfeyrac at the park, where a crowd is gathering as Courfeyrac barks out instructions. Enjolras stands back and watches it all, unable to stop smiling, when Grantaire finally approaches him. “Hey, Enjolras.”

 

He turns. Grantaire looks dashing as ever. Enjolras takes a deep breath, trying to shake the thought, and instead focuses on the task at hand. “Hey,” he greets. “I’m sorry about the other night.”

  
Grantaire smirks, tiredly. “It’s okay. We’ve all got a lot going on. Someone’s got a big photoshoot about to start, though, look at that.”

 

Enjolras laughs. “Yes,” he agrees. Grantaire narrows his eyes. “Did you bring them?”

 

“A few, yeah,” Grantaire responds, hefting the bag just a bit. “What’s going on? What are you doing?”  
  
“I’m hiring you,” Enjolras says in a rush. Grantaire’s face becomes guarded, and he takes a step back. “Well, Perspective is hiring you for the week. But if this goes well, we’ll have a more permanent deal to offer you. I know I can’t take back what I did—and I’m really, really sorry—but.”

 

Grantaire’s quiet. He’s so quiet it’s starting to stress Enjolras out, so he awkwardly holds out the envelope in his hands and watches as Grantaire’s eyebrow arches.

 

“This is only the first half,” Enjolras admits. “It’s all we could get them to agree to up front. The rest when the week is up, guaranteed, though. And… I don’t have to be around. If you’d rather do this without me. It can be Courfeyrac’s project.”

 

Curiosity must overwhelm skepticism because he takes the envelope out of Enjolras’s hands and starts to open it. His eyes widen, just enough, before worry lines appear on his brow and he starts to shake his head. “I could really use this,” he admits, “but I’m not a charity case. You don’t have to do this just because you feel bad for hurting my feelings. It sure as hell hasn’t been the first time, Enjolras. I—I don’t need any favors.”

 

“I’m asking you to do _me_ a favor,” argues Enjolras. “I love your work. You’re so _talented,_ R, and I regret not noticing it before. I really hope you’ll do this with me—with them.”

 

Grantaire is still shaking his head.

 

Enjolras gives it one last try. “Listen,” he murmurs. “I can’t take back the things I said or did, even though I wish I could. I wish I could _terribly_. And you’re right, I am doing this because I feel badly, but I feel this way because I hurt you and you’re—you were my best friend. But it’s more than me hoping to amend our friendship. It’s me hoping to save my magazine, and get you a better job in the process.”

 

“You know,” Grantaire responds, after a beat. He’s still looking out across the park, where the people are beginning to fan out as Courfeyrac directs them with ease. “I’ve seen your magazine. My stuff isn’t your style, at _all_.”

 

Enjolras grins. “Exactly.”

 

“Huh,” Grantaire says dumbly. He blinks, then slowly but surely a grin spreads across his face. “Alright. Let’s go. And don’t you go anywhere, man, this is your project after all.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Grantaire is a genius behind the camera.

 

Enjolras has always expected it to be so, even back when they were kids. Going to school for art just made him all the better—he sees the world in the way Enjolras can only dream of. Where Enjolras constantly envisions the world as black or white, focused entirely on the image, Grantaire sees it as the spaces in between; he breathes color into the photographs, into _life_ , and it’s breathtaking.

 

One of the most important segments in their upcoming magazine was the queer prom article. Perspective gets permission from the dance committee to attend briefly and capture some shots. For all his muttering about how nothing will be set up the way he’s used to, Grantaire sets to work the second they step in the building. He’s adaptable and creative, working with the environment until he finds something he’s comfortable with and steps back with satisfaction.

 

“It’s going to be staged,” Grantaire tells the students who have agreed to having their photos taken, “but this is still your night. Stay in this space and let me work my magic.”

 

And by god, he _does_. Enjolras is enchanted by it.

 

He stands off to the side, usually, more than content to stare unabashedly at Grantaire while he works—making the students feel at ease and laughing with them until they’re so relaxed that the photos come naturally. He even dressed up, just a bit, with fitting black pants and a short sleeved button up that does _wonders_ to his biceps as he photographs.

 

Behind them, Combeferre and Courfeyrac are twirling one another around in a wondrous modified waltz. Courf throws his head back and laughs when Ferre dips him out of the blue. A laugh startles out of Enjolras, so light and bubbly that instantly Grantaire’s eyes snap up to him. He watches, faintly, as Grantaire smiles against his will.

 

“Your friends are strange,” one of the students says with a grin of their own, and Enjolras winks back at them in response.

 

Grantaire raises an eyebrow at them, however, and slowly backs away from the camera, extending his hand to Enjolras. “They haven’t even seen our moves yet,” he whispers conspiringly, and Enjolras laughs out of shock and delight as he lets Grantaire tug him away from the wall. It’s ridiculous, which is exactly their style, as Grantaire dramatically tries to spin him while Enjolras stumbles over his own feet and laughs until his stomach hurts.

 

“We could always show them how we danced to _Groove Is In The Heart_ ,” Enjolras giggles. Grantaire groans.

 

“My god, man, _no_ , the world has seen enough of you dancing to that song.”

 

He dips Enjolras suddenly, then pulls him back up with just too much force—Enjolras stumbles against his chest, and his hands tighten around Grantaire’s hand and shoulder. They’re close, now—the last time Enjolras remembers being this close to Grantaire, they’d been a breath away from kissing.

 

Grantaire takes a step back, looking regretful, and leaving Enjolras cold.

 

“There’s never enough _groove_ ,” says Enjolras. He sounds a bit too breathless for his own liking. Grantaire smiles.

 

 

 

It goes on for far too long, it feels.

 

Grantaire feels so close but seems achingly far away. Always within Enjolras’s grasp but never close enough to draw forward those last final inches. It’s driving him insane—but they’re friends again, _finally_ , and it’s all Enjolras had hoped for out of this life.

 

They spend a week hopping from location to location.

 

At an old married couple’s house, they take pictures of the wives walking hand in hand through their garden as the sweet old ladies tell them in detail about all their plants. With special permission, Grantaire picks one of the flowers and tucks it gently behind Enjolras’s ear. “Arise from their graves and aspire, where my sun-flower wishes to go,” he murmurs. The smile he gives Enjolras sets his heart aflame and settles something heavy and warm and content in his stomach.

 

A support group for HIV+ people brings Enjolras the most emotional distress. He bites his lip and tries desperately not to cry as they share their stories and tales of the people they’ve lost, completely oblivious to the way Grantaire moves around them and takes pictures quietly. By the end, Enjolras goes and shakes everyone’s hand so firmly he feels he may never let go. Grantaire presses his equipment into Courfeyrac’s hands and sends him off with a murmured dismissal, before turning around and immediately encompassing Enjolras in his arms as he cries as silently as he can.

 

They get as much coverage as they can about the same-sex bill reaching legislation. They organize a rally specifically to gain photos from, and Enjolras meets so many people like him that he doesn’t stop smiling for days. The pictures they take home there are some of the most lovely he’s ever seen in his life, but the one he’s most fond of is the one Grantaire snuck of him—Enjolras, mid-conversation with another transgender man, when Grantaire had called for his attention by letting out the softest of laughs. On his face, pure and unfiltered happiness as he turns to face Grantaire. It’s just slightly blurry at the edges, enough to be able to make out vibrantly colored protest signs, but focused so clearly on the grin that splits Enjolras’s face.

 

He asks Grantaire if he can keep it, specifically.

 

 

 

They celebrate the end of a very busy week at the bar.

 

Everyone comes—it’s full of life and laughter and vibrancy, no one holding back and everyone letting lose. Enjolras sits alone at the bar, more than content to watch his friends and feel happy for _real_ for the first time since he woke up here. Jehan has commandeered Marius away from hiding in a booth to twirl him about in a very elaborate dance, to a song performed generously by a tipsy Joly. Combeferre and Feuilly are locked in a fairly intense game of chess, Bahorel sits across the way next to Bossuet and Musichetta telling jokes. Courfeyrac is entertaining Cosette—Valjean’s daughter, and Marius’s drunken fiancée fiasco—while Éponine has Grantaire engaged in a competitive arm wrestle.

 

Enjolras is more than a little tipsy himself, but he’s feeling warm in a way that he can’t attest to the beer, and he’s still smiling happily to himself and swaying along to Joly’s karaoke when Grantaire suddenly sits next to him.

 

“Hey,” he says happily. Grantaire shakes his head, though it’s fond.

 

“You looked lonely,” he says. He signals for the bartender to hand him a beer of his own, and once he’s got it he turns to face Enjolras completely. “A party in your honor and yet you sit by yourself? You still continue to baffle me.”

 

“I sort of baffle everyone, man, don’t take it too hard,” says Enjolras automatically. Grantaire startles, just enough, but Enjolras catches the surprised laugh that escapes him. “And this party isn’t for me. It’s for you. Honestly, R, this week… The pictures, they turned out _beautiful_.”

 

Grantaire is looking at him with something he can’t quite describe. “Yeah, they really did come out okay, didn’t they?”

 

“More than okay, I think.”

 

There’s the smallest of smiles playing at the corner of Grantaire’s mouth.

 

“You know what I want more than anything in the world right now?” Enjolras says suddenly. Grantaire raises an eyebrow at him. “Razzles.”

 

“ _Razzles_?”

 

Enjolras can only laugh in response. Perhaps he’s a bit more drunk than he’d originally led himself to believe.

 

“I haven’t had Razzles in, god, I don’t know—fifteen years?” Grantaire says in wonder. “Candy and a gum. God, we used to be obsessed with them, didn’t we?”

 

Enjolras grins wickedly.

 

That’s all it takes, really, before they’re out the door to the nearest convenience store. “On a quest!” Enjolras cries, and he stumbles a bit. Grantaire is there to catch him; Grantaire is _always_ there to catch him.

 

It takes them two stores and an excessively long time searching aisles, but Grantaire lets out a victorious cry forty-five minutes into their quest and proudly holds up a single package of Razzles. Enjolras has the stupid, dashing thought that Grantaire looks more beautiful now than Enjolras has ever seen him.

 

He pockets the thought for later; for now, he has more important things to focus on.

 

“I can’t believe they had them!” he laughs as they stumble out the door and back onto the street. Grantaire is eagerly tearing open the package. Enjolras extends his hand, saying, “C’mon, don’t waste a minute!”

 

“It’s been a long time!” Grantaire protests, but even he’s giggling as he struggles with the packaging. “Okay, here. Careful, don’t drop them.”

 

“I _won’t_!”

 

And as Enjolras pops the handful of candy into his mouth, he feels like a kid all over again—it comes over him like a wave, the way he and Grantaire used to be, and how nice childhood used to be. He took it for granted, he realizes now, but he’s transported back just by a candy and Grantaire’s sugary laugh. He’s starting to think that maybe he can make this world work out, after all.

 

They start walking again, and it’s quiet between them. Just as it used to be. Enjolras realizes with a laugh that their steps have fallen in line with one another, still, even after all this time. He ducks his head. Grantaire laughs suddenly, soft.

 

“What are you laughing at?”

 

Grantaire shrugs. He doesn’t lose the smile. “I dunno. Life. Timing. Eating Razzles with you, after everything that’s happened, and thinking that it feels like absolutely nothing has changed.”

 

Enjolras is _warm_.

 

“R, I’ve had the best time working with you this week,” Enjolras says honestly. “I can’t remember the last time I had this much fun.”

 

“Me too, Enj,” says Grantaire softly.

 

Enjolras stops, reaching out so that his fingers brush against Grantaire’s arm until he comes to a stop, too. “Hey, R? Tell me something.” Grantaire gives him an encouraging look. “What color is my tongue?”

For what it’s worth, Grantaire seems to try hard not to laugh when Enjolras sticks his tongue out. “What?”

 

“What _color_ is my tongue?” Enjolras says, rolling his eyes just a bit.

 

Grantaire’s still looking at him like he’s lost his mind. Enjolras tries hard to stick his tongue out even more. “It’s red, I don’t know! Red!”

 

“You’re an artist and the best you can come up with is _red—_ ”

 

“Razzle red,” Grantaire interjects. He’s smiling like this is the happiest he’s ever felt. “You’re such a weirdo. I can’t believe I’m still your friend.”

 

Enjolras laughs and bumps his shoulder against Grantaire’s. He’s more than content to just stay there, even for the rest of their lives, when he notices something across the street. He smirks. “I bet I can still beat you off the jump.”

 

Grantaire gives him a skeptical look but follows to where Enjolras points, and breaks into a grin the same time he starts running. Enjolras chases after him, giggling, and practically dives for the swing. If he’s going to spend the night being childish, he’s going to do it _right._

 

“Whoever goes the furthest, the other owes a drink,” Grantaire says, and the challenge lifts his tone.

 

“A vanilla coke!” Enjolras clarifies. Grantaire throughs his head back and laughs.

 

“You’re really upping the stakes here, I see.”

 

In a burst of courage, Enjolras blurts out, “And dinner. Friday night, eight o’ clock. At Rozell Cafe… To celebrate our redesign being chosen, and your job with Perspective becoming permanent, if you take it.”

 

“Deal.”

 

They count down together, anxiety bubbling in Enjolras’s stomach but coiling in a way that doesn’t make him nervous—just excited for whatever comes next. By the time they reach one, he tries his best to jump as far as possible from the swing, stumbling more than he cares to admit and landing ungracefully on the ground next to Grantaire. They’re giggling like school children, groaning as they come to terms with their mistake, and ending up pressed together with Enjolras half on top of Grantaire as he tries to brush some of the dirt out of the dark curls.

 

“Are you okay?”

 

Grantaire laughs as best as he can while he tries to catch his breath. His hand settles on Enjolras’s waist hesitantly. “That was a mistake. That was a bad mistake, I’m too old for this, this is why swings are for children.”

 

“No, don’t say that—because if that’s true, that means I am.”

 

“Well, if the shoe fits…”

 

Enjolras looks down at him, still full of light and happiness, before he gets the sense that this is a bad idea and that he needs to move. He’s giggling as he rolls off Grantaire. To his surprise, Grantaire follows, one arm coming down on either side of Enjolras as he starts to climb up. Enjolras runs his finger along Grantaire’s forearm out of impulse, in wonder, so suddenly that Grantaire hesitates and lingers over top him.

 

“Hey. You got arm hair.”

 

The look Grantaire gives him is strange, but Enjolras is so inexplicably fond of him that it does nothing but turn on a staccato in his heart. “It’s never gotten _that_ reaction before.”

 

Enjolras smiles. So much has changed, he thinks, even when it feels like nothing has at all. “You grew up,” Enjolras whispers. It’s a secret, to be kept between the two of them, but the moment feels more intimate than that. “I always thought you were the most beautiful soul I knew.”

 

Grantaire’s eyes are bright and lovely as ever, filled with an emotion that Enjolras can’t identify but can recognize as whatever’s happening in his on heart right now. He feels like he could fly—he feels like the entire universe has aligned itself just so that this moment could occur. He feels like nothing else has ever mattered as much as this.

 

Slowly, hesitantly, Grantaire closes the distance between them and kisses Enjolras.

 

 _This is how a first kiss should feel,_ he thinks, to himself. Grantaire’s lips are soft, and happy, and his body is arm and Enjolras is dizzy with it. It’s short, as kisses go. Grantaire pulls back after a bit and grins dazedly at Enjolras before the corners of his mouth start to turn down. He presses another kiss, faint, brushing, to Enjolras’s forehead before sitting up completely. As he looks up at the sky, Enjolras pulls himself up, and rests his head very carefully on Grantaire’s shoulder.

 

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs.

 

“I’m not,” is all Grantaire says in response.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Enjolras isn’t quite sure how to describe the way he feels for the next few days after the night at the swings.

 

But, he realizes much too soon, he hasn’t quite got the time to analyze it, regardless. There’s so much he has to get done before the deadline in a few days, and he still feels like he’s only just started. Enjolras spends more time at the office than he cares to admit, designing poster boards and layouts and rearranging picture after picture.

 

Grantaire texts him, occasionally, even when he hasn’t got the time to reply. Somehow, even though they make him smile absurdly, it only makes everything more confusing.

 

“These pictures are unbelievable, Enj, I mean honestly,” Marius gushes. “I’d heard Grantaire was talented but I’d never expected them to turn out like this. If Perspective doesn’t hire him after this, can I?”

 

“Here’s the one with Marie and Ana in their garden,” Enjolras says. He places it in the designated empty spot. “Okay. Tell me honestly, what do you think?”  
  
“Well, I think I’m going to have to start reading Perspective for the first time in my life,” Marius admits. Enjolras gives him an incredulous look, which Marius just laughs at. “Give me a break, I used to never have the time!”

 

Enjolras grins, and grasps Marius by the shoulder. His face grows soft as he looks at the presentation one last time. “Marius, do you have—”

 

There’s a knock on his door, and they both turn to see Lamarque stepping into his office. She looks upset and anxious. “Enjolras,” she says firmly. “Excuse my language but—my balls are in an iron vice, corporate is _clinging_ to them until we get this figured out. They’re sending a representative to view your presentation and you’re burrowing up in your office designing poster boards? What is going on?”

 

“What’s going on is that we’ve got to make this perfect before we can present this, ma’am, all due respect.”

 

Lamarque presses her hand to her temple. “Enjolras, I trust you, I really do, but I’m far too anxious about this. You haven’t reported to me _at all—_ you hired a photographer with our permission and that’s the last I’ve heard from you. We’ve _got_ to hit this nail on the head before it turns into the final one in our coffin.”

 

Enjolras hesitates, for only a second. His phone rings, so Marius quickly crosses the room to pick it up. “How long until your balls are totally squished?” Enjolras asks. Lamarque flinches crudely.

 

“Hopefully never, that’s a rather vile thought in my opinion.”

 

“Can everyone hang in there until five o’ clock? Just a little bit longer, Lamarque, I swear,” Enjolras promises. She looks at him equal parts shocked and worried.

 

“Enjolras, you have _not_ been yourself as of late. Since when do you keep me out of the loop like this? I can’t remember the last time you didn’t tell me every part of your plan. I’m quite worried, here, if we’re being honest.”

 

Marius pipes in, “Enj, the rest of the prints are ready, you’ve got to go.”

 

Enjolras beams. “Lovely.” He squeezes Lamarque’s forearm. “Hang in there.”

 

Lamarque throws her hands up, baffled. “Were you not listening?” she says, incredulous.

 

“Marius, let’s _go_.”

 

“ _He_ gets to know what’s going on?!”

 

Enjolras has enough time to shoot Lamarque a sympathetic look. “Ma’am, I’m asking for you to trust me,” he says. “This magazine is my project, too. I won’t let you down—this is too important to not give it my all.”

 

 

 

And so he does.

 

He feels kind of foolish, standing in front of a room full of nervous publishers and journalists with nothing but a few poster boards and a terrifying leap of faith. He swallows thickly. He gestures to the first poster board, and begins.

 

“I know this is different,” he says. His voice, though gentle, carries easily through the silent room. “I mean, this isn’t like anything we’ve _ever_ done before. But—isn’t that the point? If we’ve got to redesign, why can’t we _reinvent_? Look at last month’s edition. I know you can probably tell me the names of the people on the pages because you worked with the models, or recognize the politicians or celebrities. We know who they are, but we don’t know them. I want to start seeing the elderly couple from a few doors down, who have lived to an old age and are still enchanted by one another. I want to see young couples falling in love for real, I want to see friends gathering and having a good time. People we may not know but people that we can recognize as ordinary people we see every day. Why does politics have to be popular? Why don’t we start making an impact…using the very people who look to us for advice? These people are smart and gorgeous and _happy_ and proud to be who they are! They’re real, they’re our readers, and we owe our successes to them. Let’s put _life_ back into the magazine. And fun—and _laughter_ , and silliness!” Enjolras stops breathlessly, eyes catching on the photograph Courfeyrac had managed to snag, of Grantaire and Enjolras dancing with one another, laughing without a care in the world.

 

“I think all of us are trying to feel something…that we’ve forgotten, or turned our backs on,” Enjolras continues. He’s gone softer now, losing some of his momentum now as he stares at the beautiful pictures Grantaire took, overwhelmed by the feeling of it all. “Because maybe we never realized just how much we’d be leaving behind. We need to remember what used to be good. If we don’t… we won’t recognize it, even if it hits us right between the eyes when we least expect it.”

 

The room is silent as he concludes. He’s pulled up all of his posters, passed out the spare prints he had, given them everything he had prepared—and he doesn’t feel like it’s _enough_. They all stare at him, each face looking at him with a different, indescribable look, and nothing happens. He swallows again, turns back to his postures, and compulsively fixes a picture that’s fallen just a little out of place.

 

It’s then that the room bursts into applause, led enthusiastically by Lamarque who wipes at her eyes before saying, “Excellent work, Enjolras,” and standing to give him the strongest hug. Enjolras lets out a hysteric laugh he hadn’t realized he’d been holding in, and Lamarque says into his ear, “Brilliant.”

 

He’s trying not to cry as Lamarque pulls away and focuses her full attention on the boards, examine each picture with rigor. “Mr. Montparnasse, if you please, come take a look at these. I do believe we’ve found our next big thing.”

 

Enjolras can hardly believe it as everyone comes up and shakes his hand, singing praises about the design he’s created. Courfeyrac hugs him fiercely and squeezes his hand. “I’m so proud of you,” he says. “You really did make an incredible project.”

 

“This is what I was born to do,” answers Enjolras honestly. Lamarque turns to him again, as the corporate representative takes a look at his poster boards with a passive face. She’s still beaming at him.

 

“You saved our magazine, Enjolras,” she tells him. Her eyes are still wet with tears that won’t quite fall, but her expression is bursting with pride. “I cannot thank you enough. Now, you look like you’re dying to be anywhere but here, so. Go celebrate. This is your victory as much as it is ours.”

 

Enjolras kisses her hand and says goodbye to all of his friends before taking off out of the room. He barely has time to stop in his office to grab his things before he’s taking off again, not bothering to shut the door behind him. The elevator moves too slow, but the second it stops Enjolras is out and dialing Grantaire’s number on his phone.

 

They’ve got so much to celebrate.

 

 

 

He tries not to dwell too long on what he wears, but if he’s being honest, he can’t help it. He arranges his curls as neatly as he can, and rotates between three different shirts until he settles on one he thinks looks nice. He’s got all the time in the world, and he still feels like he could fly—so he leaves his apartment and walks the surprisingly short distance to where Grantaire lives.

 

It starts to rain as he’s walking, which Enjolras finds incredibly cliche but can’t help grinning at regardless. People around him start to pull out umbrellas, but Enjolras just breaks into a run and enjoys the way he feels so _alive_.

 

He’s let in by one of Grantaire’s neighbors leaving, and quickly bounds up the stairs to the second floor, knocking eagerly on the door. He can’t wait to tell Grantaire and for everything to finally, _finally_ fall into place. They’re getting their chance now, things are finally working out—

 

Floréal opens the door.

 

Enjolras’s heart plummets into his stomach.

 

“Oh. Hi.”

 

Floréal gives him a curious look. “Hey. Enj, right?”

 

“Enjolras. Yeah. I was, um, looking for Grantaire, is he here? I’ve got some really great news about the work he did for Perspective, about his photographs. Everyone loved them.”

 

“That’s great,” Floréal says. She doesn’t sound surprised, but Enjolras guesses it shouldn’t come as a shock to hear someone sing praises about her fiancé’s work. “I’ll be sure to tell him when he gets back, he’s just picking up his tux.”

 

Enjolras tries not to look like he’s dying, even though that’s exactly how he feels. Gone is the feeling of utmost euphoria, replaced now by a sinking dread as he realizes just what he’s done. He’d promised himself to keep Grantaire at a distance—they were just supposed to remain friends, Enjolras _knew_ he was engaged, yet still—

 

“His tux?” Enjolras says quietly. It sounds wounded, sad even to his own ears.

 

Floréal laughs, goodnatured. Enjolras can’t bring himself to hate her. “I know! He’s a disaster, isn’t he? Everything’s last minute. He’d lose his head if it wasn’t attached, you know? I mean, hello, we _are_ getting married tomorrow.”

 

Enjolras tries to swallow the panic building in his throat. He wonders if this is what it feels like to have a broken heart. “Congratulations,” he says, and he tries his damnedest to mean it.

 

“Thank you,” responds Floréal. She looks genuinely touched. “You’re more than welcome to stop by, if you have the time. I’ll tell Grantaire you came over.”

 

Enjolras nods numbly, and gives her a smile that feels insincere even to him.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The next morning, he sits in his office surrounded by all of Grantaire’s beautiful, amazing pictures, and he wonders how everything could have gone so wrong so quickly.

 

In his desk, he finds a picture frame. The one from his wall, he’s assuming, that he took down before he ever woke up in this place. It’s him and Grantaire maybe seventeen years old, arms slung around one another as they grin at the camera. Enjolras has got this warning look on his face, like whoever had taken the picture had said something to tease him just minutes before. And Grantaire—Grantaire’s arm is tight around his waist, holding him close, and his face is more at peace than Enjolras has ever seen.

 

He hangs the picture back on his wall.

 

It’s not much, but it feels monumental.

 

Enjolras is still looking at his wall of photographs when Lamarque lets herself into his office. Her expression is guarded, and sad at the edges.

 

“If it’s more bad news, I really can’t take it right now,” sighs Enjolras. He rubs tiredly at his eyes. “Tell me that the rest of corporate loved the plan, tell me you’re here to get me into Courfeyrac’s office so we can finish designing the magazine.”

 

“Enjolras,” she says softly. “It’s over.”

 

He lifts his head from his hands. “It’s _over_?”

 

Lamarque looks heartbroken, and somehow it’s worse than everything else Enjolras is feeling right now. “The representative that corporate sent, Montparnasse… he’s an insider for Spectrum. He took all your designs over there. He took _everything_. He’s going to be their new editor in chief, because of this.”

 

Dread fills Enjolras’s blood. “No.”

 

“Your photos showed up online on Spectrum’s website last night, and today they’re spreading to outdoor ads everywhere,” Lamarque persists. The words don’t quite connect in Enjolras’s brain, they seem so implausible.

 

“He can’t take R’s pictures, those _belong_ to us! They can’t do that!”

 

“They _can_ ,” says Lamarque sharply. She hands Enjolras a paper that reads _photography release_ at the top and has Grantaire’s signature at the bottom. “And they are. Montparnasse got your friend to sign this, so everything belongs to them now.”

 

Enjolras stares at the paper, noncomprehending. “How did he get R to sign this?” Enjolras demands. The dread is spreading, making him cold and sick and leaving him with nothing but anger. An unpleasant realization settles against Enjolras’s spine when he realizes that it’s likely Montparnasse said whatever he could to convince Grantaire that Perspective didn’t want his photos. “He’s ruining everything!”

 

Lamarque tries to talk to him more, but Enjolras storms past her and out of his office. Spectrum is only a block away, and he’s blinded by rage and a white-hot panic that gets him there and through the front doors in no time flat. The secretary doesn’t even try to stop him, just smiles and greets him by name and that makes him feel _worse._ He storms through the floor until he finds Montparnasse’s new office and bursts in there. “You stole our pictures! And _our_ redesign!”

 

Montparnasse is an extravagant looking man with an air of cold dignity, and he regards Enjolras with such. “Don’t act so high and mighty, darling, I was simply following your lead. One of us had to cross the bridge, now, didn’t we?”

 

“What are you _talking_ about?”

 

“Tell me, Enjolras, how does it feel to be deluding everyone in your life including yourself?” Montparnasse asks. He opens a drawer in his desk, pulling out stuffed envelopes and tossing them towards Enjolras. “At least I know how to stick to my principles when it comes to getting a job I deserve. Be honest now, do those look familiar? They’ve got your name on the front, after all.”

 

Enjolras is _boiling_. “You went through my stuff.”

 

Montparnasse rolls his eyes. “You left your door wide open, give me a break! How horrible of me. How terrible. Stop looking at me like you weren’t just as cutthroat a few months ago. We used to be in this together, Enjolras. Competing to see who could get there first. The only thing is, I was higher up in the chain of command, but you were where the action was. It was a nice little deal—which of the two of us can help Spectrum get to a million copies? The winner takes home editor in chief, and Perspective closes.”

 

“Oh my god,” Enjolras whispers. He’s going to be _sick_. This is what Courfeyrac meant about him betraying them, about the magazine. He’d been feeding their content to Spectrum for months, most likely, and for horribly selfish reasons.

 

“The only thing I can’t figure out, is why you stopped fighting,” Montparnasse continues. His expression grows curious, and he leans forward in his seat. “At first, I thought you were just trying to give Perspective false hope. It was cruel, and surprising coming from you—which, I suppose, is why you didn’t do it. But then the designs never came. So I had to get them myself. And now I’ve got the job. You’ve got the magazine you tried so valiantly to save… just in time to single-handedly flush it down the toilet.”

 

“What about Grantaire?” Enjolras demands. “What did you say to him, why did he sign this?”

 

Montparnasse purses his lips. “Oh, lord, I can’t be expected to remember conversations like that. Let’s see… I think I told him that you had decided to go a, well, different direction, so to speak. Which, honestly, you are now. Apologies, I suppose. And I might have told him something else but—you know, I can’t quite remember.”

 

Enjolras hisses. “You _snake_ ,” he spits, angry and unable to think of anything else. There’s so much to do, and so much more to say. “You’re going to regret this.”

 

“No,” says Montparnasse resolutely. He looks around his new office. “I really can’t imagine that I will.”

 

 

 

He’s got three hours before the wedding—and it’s a two hour taxi ride to Floréal’s old house, where the ceremony is. Enjolras dives into the taxi, spouting off the address and offering a hefty tip if the driver can get there in less than two hours.

 

The driver takes off like a bat out of hell, and Enjolras spends the next while dreading everything that’s about to happen. He’s got to apologize to Grantaire, got to somehow fix things lest he loses his best friend and probable soulmate forever. He’s got a magazine to bring back from extinction, friends to apologize to for real, and so many other things that he fucked up without meaning to and no time to do it.

 

They’re making good time, except for when they get stuck by a train crossing right outside of the town where Grantaire is getting married. Enjolras hisses in frustration, and climbs out of the taxi despite the driver’s protest, throwing some bills at him before he takes off running. It’s a short distance, luckily, and Enjolras is determined enough that he’s not sure anything could stop him from getting there.

 

People are loitering outside, some of them peering curiously at Enjolras when he comes sprinting from around the corner and stuttering to a stop. He hasn’t thought this through at all, he realizes, even though he had nearly two _hours_. He ducks behind the flower van and takes an arrangement out from the back, throwing panicked smiles to anyone who looks at him like he might not belong.

 

Someone is decorating the car to declare _Just Married_ , and Enjolras once again is struck by crippling guilt as he walks past it and through the front door.

 

He asks where he might find the groom and is directed upstairs immediately, and as he goes up he presses the flower arrangement into the hands of someone going down and blatantly ignores their confused look. He has to try hard to avoid his friends, who are all talking in hushed and excited voices about the ceremony. Enjolras breathes through the panic.

 

Outside Grantaire’s door, he hesitates just for a minute before letting himself in.

 

“Hi,” he says quietly.

 

Grantaire turns, and gives him a surprised and small smile. “Hey.” He sounds happy, even though it’s a bit guarded.

 

Enjolras looks at the ground. “I don’t—I don’t know what Montparnasse told you about me, I don’t know what he said but… Whoever he was talking about, when he said that stuff. It wasn’t me.”

 

Grantaire snorts a bit. He fidgets with his bowtie, still untied around his neck. “It doesn’t matter, I don’t think I would have believed anything that guy said to me.”

 

Enjolras lets out the breath he didn’t know he was holding. “Grantaire,” he says firmly. He takes a step forward and lifts his gaze. “I am _not_ the awful person that I know I was. Honestly, I don’t know that person. I certainly didn’t recognize him. And—part of me wants to believe… I _have_ to believe that, if you knew that in your heart, like I do, then you wouldn’t be getting ready to marry someone. Unless that someone were me.”

 

Grantaire sighs. The expression on his face is devastating, and Enjolras knows that he’s the reason Grantaire is hurting and looks so conflicted. He wants to step forward and comfort Grantaire, but somehow he knows that would only make things worse.

 

“Enjolras, I’m not going to lie to you. I’ve felt things these past few weeks that I haven’t felt in… _years_. I didn’t even know I _could_ feel like that anymore. But I grew up, and I’ve realized—especially in these past few days—that you can’t just turn back time.”

 

 _God_ , that’s all Enjolras wants, it what he wants more than anything in the world. Nothing makes sense, this isn’t what he meant when he said he wanted the world to be accepting and easy. He wishes he could go back and do it all over, prove to Grantaire from the start that they’re meant to be. “Why not?”

 

“Jesus Christ, Enjolras,” Grantaire snaps. He shakes his head and takes a deep breath. “I moved on, you moved on! We’ve gone down different paths for so long. You didn’t want me then, I—I had to move on. We made choices. I chose Floréal.”

 

“I’ve _always_ wanted you,” argues Enjolras.

 

Grantaire looks him in the eye. “You’ve always had a funny way of showing it.”

 

There’s nothing Enjolras can think to say to that.

 

“That’s her family down there, Enj,” he says. His voice sounds heartbroken, and that’s a betrayal in itself. “We care about each other, you know? I chose her for a reason. She’s family, too. You don’t always get the dream house but you can get damn close.”

 

Enjolras is giving everything he has to not cry, but it isn’t working. He screwed this up—he wanted it prematurely and he couldn’t slow down enough to realize he was losing everything. He did everything wrong and this is his _life_ now, he’s lost his magazine and he’ll lose his friends and he’s going to lose the only man he’ll ever love because he was too late.

 

“Enj, please don’t cry,” Grantaire says. He steps forward, and Enjolras flails his arms and shakes his head.

 

“No, no, I’m fine,” he says. He forces a smile. He will be. He has to be. He chose this life, he has to be. “I’ll be fine, R, I promise.”

 

Grantaire doesn’t say anything. There’s a million emotions dancing across his face, a lot of them Enjolras can finally recognize, but Grantaire just turns slowly and opens the door to the closet. Enjolras watches—curious, silent, sad.

 

“This is Floréal’s parents’ house,” he’s murmuring. “I’m sure she told you, she gave you the address after all. But after everything that went down with my parents, hers have been so…kind to me. They let me store things here. And. I’ve kept it safe.”

 

He emerges slowly, holding the dream house he built Enjolras seventeen years ago, still as beautiful as it was when Enjolras saw it the first time. He smiles at it, breathless, and whispers, “Can I have it? R, please?”

 

Grantaire gives him a sad, sad smile. “It was always yours.”

 

Enjolras takes it carefully, cradles it in his arms and lets the tears fall heavy from his eyes. Grantaire looks like he wants to do something, like he wants to step forward or say something else but there’s nothing left to say, not when this is the end for him. Enjolras shakes his head firmly. “You can’t be late,” he croaks out. He gives Grantaire another smile. “Go ahead. I’m just fine, I’m crying because I’m happy—this makes me so happy. I just want you to be happy, too, R.”

 

Enjolras hesitates, then says with no resolve or regrets. “I love you. You’re. You’re still my best friend.”

 

He turns to leave, needing to get out, needing to _go_ , but Grantaire takes a deep breath and starts, “Enjolras, I—”

 

He hesitates in the doorway.

 

“I have always loved you,” Grantaire whispers. Enjolras squeezes his eyes closed, and it takes all of his strength for him to step out of the room.

 

He takes a seat on the curb outside of Floréal’s family’s house, places his old birthday present next to him, and reminisces about back when everything was simpler but seemed so dire. Inside, music begins to play as Floréal undoubtedly begins to walk down the aisle. Enjolras looks up at the sky to blink back his tears, and smiles sadly.

 

In his pocket, his phone chimes with an alert.

 

It’s a breaking news report—same-sex marriage is officially legal in France.

 

With a sad smile and a heart full of too many emotions, Enjolras pockets his phone again and glances back at the house, full of what-ifs and could-have-beens. This is what he wanted, when he made that wish so long ago. He wanted to live in a time where the world was more accepting. He supposes it makes sense that he was brought here, then, right before this. He’s filled with hope, among other things. Enjolras tries to cling to it as persisting thoughts of Grantaire marrying someone else less than one hundred feet from him continue to pop up in his mind.

 

The dream house looks exactly the same.

 

There’s still a stereo with all the best records, there’s still a mini Enjolras in the attic reading Perspective, and a mini Grantaire standing with his old camera and his eye on a mini Bryce Adams. There’s the model of how his house used to look, there’s proof of how it used to be, and there’s memories tied into every bit of this dream house—memories that Enjolras wishes now more than ever he could have given himself time to enjoy.

 

 _I wish I could go back_ , he thinks, not for the first time. He understands now. Life is never easier. He knows now that he can have hope for the future because this is a _better_ time, he knows now that life can’t be rushed. He wants to do it over, do it _right_ , wants to start by never letting Grantaire out of his sight. Enjolras closes his eyes once again as the tears threaten to spill. There’s a breeze, just a small enough one to fool Enjolras into thinking that this is a new beginning, when he gets an idea about the magazine. They needn’t worry about it shutting down now. Enjolras has the solution.

 

He drifts off without realizing he’s falling asleep, and around him the old wishing dust continues to swirl amidst the air.

 

 

 

 

 

 

_nineteen ninety six_

 

 

 

He wakes up in his basement.

 

The air around him is discolored and unfocused, but when he finally comes to, he’s in his parents’ basement and it’s as he remembers. Enjolras brings his hands to his face. Gone is the definition he’d grown used to, back is the horrible, horrible haircut, and he’s wearing the outfit he remembers deciding to wear for his party. In his hair is flakes of the sparkling wishing dust, which he brushes out hastily. He looks around the room, still dazed, when he hears knocking on the door and Grantaire’s faint, young voice calling his name. Enjolras feels like he’s been struck by lighting when he hears Grantaire’s voice, he’s suddenly _alive_ again and he stands up hastily and stumbles in his rush to get up the stairs. He throws open the door and Grantaire is _there_ and they’re young again and he isn’t married and they’ve got years and years to make it right now.

 

“R,” he gasps out, and he practically tackles Grantaire when he lunges to hug him. They tumble to the ground and Grantaire laughs as the breath is knocked out of him but Enjolras isn’t missing a beat this time. He says, “Can I kiss you?”

 

Grantaire blinks stupidly, _adorably_ , before saying, “Yeah, _duh_ ,” so Enjolras does.

 

It’s the best first kiss ever, and Enjolras isn’t even a little biased.

 

When he pulls away, Grantaire looks dazed and happy and perplexed. Enjolras kisses him again, because he can. “Um, wow,” Grantaire squeaks. He blushes, but Enjolras just laughs. “Are you okay?”

 

“Never better,” Enjolras says. And he means it wholeheartedly. “I’m sorry. About running away. About being scared. But I’ve just had the most crazy experience—oh, I don’t even know if you’d believe me, but—I learned not to be scared. And to stop wasting time. That is, if this is okay with you.”

 

“Oh my god yes, literally a thousand times yes,” Grantaire agrees hastily. “I’ve only been in love with you since literally the day you moved in next door. Am I dreaming? It feels like I’m dreaming.”

 

Enjolras smirks. “Trust me, this is real.”

 

He moves so that they both can sit up. He’s still pressed to Grantaire’s side—honestly, he doesn’t ever want to leave—but with more confidence than Enjolras expected, Grantaire grasps his hand and twines their fingers together. “And ‘this’, it isn’t a one time thing, right? Like you’re legit? Because I swear to god, Enj, if you’re pulling my leg, I’m gone so freakin’ fast—”

 

“Grantaire,” he says firmly. He waits until Grantaire finally, _finally_ looks him in the eyes. “This is real as can be for me. I’ve loved you for probably forever, too. You can’t get rid of me that easily.”

 

A smile breaks Grantaire’s face, and he leans forward to hesitantly press another kiss to Enjolras’s lips. It’s only the start, but it’s something, and Enjolras knows exactly where it’ll go from here. He stands, tugging on Grantaire’s hand until he stands up and follows where Enjolras goes. “Now come on, we’re going to be late!”

 

“Late for _what_?”

 

“You’ll see!”

 

 

 

 

 

 

_two thousand thirteen—done right_

 

 

 

Enjolras and Grantaire burst through the doors of the Musain, where all their friends sit and wait anxiously. The television is on, turned to the news station, and Grantaire clings to Enjolras’s hand while everyone waits with anticipation. Enjolras himself can’t take his eyes off of the television, can’t take his hands off of his fiancé, even though he knows where this will go.

 

“Turn it up,” he says surely, and so Musichetta does.

 

The reporter’s face fills the screen. Her expression is neutral as she listens to whatever is being said in her earpiece. With a straight face, she nods once, then looks directly in the camera. “People of France, we have just received direct word that this bill has been passed despite protests, as of today same-sex marriage is officially legal in France—”

 

Cheers erupt in the Musain as people celebrate and kiss and cry. Grantaire lets out a holler that echoes through the room and turns to scoop Enjolras into his arms to twirl him around. Enjolras laughs, happier now than he can ever remember feeling, and he kisses Grantaire happily several times. After a few minutes of celebration, Grantaire whistles to gather everyone’s attention. “As most of you know, we’ve already got the article covered. I’ve got Marius on standby to post it as soon as the announcement was made, and tomorrow we’ll begin selling the physical copies of this edition. This is the first time _our_ magazine will be published, everyone. We have taken Perspective and turned it into something revolutionary. Tonight, we toast in celebration to the official launch of the ABC!”

 

There’s more celebration, cries out for his friends and clinks as people toast their glasses together, but Grantaire whistles once more to regather their attention. “Yes, we’re all very proud of the magazine, this is very exciting, Enjolras makes the hottest editor in chief we know. _But_ , what my darling Enj forgot to mention—we’re getting married in two days, legally and all.”

 

Enjolras rolls his eyes. Chaos bursts throughout the room as everyone cries out their congratulations, but once again Enjolras only has eyes for Grantaire. Even after all this time—done the right way, with a lot of hard work, he might add—Grantaire is still the most prominent thing on his mind. He kisses his fiancé happily, and wraps his arms around Grantaire’s neck. “How did I get so incredibly lucky?”

 

Grantaire kisses the corner of his mouth. “You won the lottery, that’s for sure,” he agrees. While Enjolras laughs and rests his head on Grantaire’s shoulder, he shifts them enough that he can raise a camera in the air. “Everyone, smile,” he calls, and there’s more chaos as everyone hustles to get in the frame.

 

For what it’s worth, Enjolras gets his happy ending after all.

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me [here](https://tonytangredis.tumblr.com/).
> 
> comment, kudos, bookmark below!


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